


Just Out of Reach

by carefree_criminal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But also lots of plot, F/M, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Lots of Sex, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefree_criminal/pseuds/carefree_criminal
Summary: The (female) reader is kidnapped by the one and only Jim Moriarty, and over time, she is pulled deeper and deeper into his web...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this is a fic I've been working on for quite a while. It's very long, and remains unfinished (and full of gaps), but I'm going to start posting what I have so far. Enjoy :)

You sit alone, shoulders hunched over, on a bench at the train station. Between your legs sits your bag, filled with everything you’ll need for your job in the city. In the distance, you hear the whirring of a train, the screeching of its breaks as it comes to a halt at the station. You stand up, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, waiting for the doors to open. The train cars are crowded today, typical for a Monday morning, and the faces already look tired and worn out. Only a few people filter out of the car in front of you, and you and a couple of others slowly snake your way between the spaces.

Knowing perfectly well that there’s no chance of there being an empty seat, you look anyway, your eyes scanning the sides of the car. To your right, a sharply dressed dark-haired man, who looks no older than his early thirties, is sitting with a bag on the seat next to him. You want to ask him if he can move the bag so you can sit down, but he’s got earbuds in and his eyes are glued to his phone. So for a few moments, you stay standing, gripping one of the bars to your side. As the train jolts into motion, you see the man look up, out of the corner of your eye. You glance over immediately, making eye contact and trying to silently convey your request.

He understands, and, smiling politely, while chewing away at a piece of gum, he lifts his bag off the seat and places it between his feet on the floor. You nod a silent thank you, and take a seat where his bag was. As you sit down and start digging through your bag for a book, you sense him looking at you still, with prying eyes. You flick your eyes to the side, keeping your head down, and see that he’s doing the same thing, subtly looking over you with calm, brown eyes. He’s rather good-looking, with sharp features, cleanly shaven face, pale with dark near-black hair that’s nicely slicked back.

There’s no exchange of words, just an awkward sense of nervous anticipation, as if you are both waiting for the other to speak. At the next stop, neither one of you stands. He’s long since averted his eyes back to his phone, and you’ve gotten through a few more pages of your book. As the train begins to move again, you take a quick glance at his phone screen, not wanting to invade his privacy, yet at the same time being overwhelmed by curiosity, almost motivated by a sense of suspicion of this man. The glare coming in from the window makes the screen hardly visible, but it looks like he is going through emails or something.

Another stop passes, more people drift out of the car, with a few more slouching in and taking any empty seats. But your seat is on the end, so you’re left just sitting next to the man. _Just one more stop,_ you think to yourself, _then I can get away from this guy_. You don’t even know why you’re so anxious about not being near him anymore. Something about him just makes you nervous. The train starts decelerating, so you put your book back into your bag, and are about to stand up, when a cold, firm hand grasps your wrist. You freeze, sitting on the edge of your seat, heart palpitating erratically with fear.

Observing that he doesn’t seem to be planning on letting go of you any time soon, you slowly slide back into your seat, staring straight forward, blankly, at the people sitting across from you, one of them sleeping, others too focused on phones or newspapers to notice what’s going on across from them. There is still a good amount of people in the car, most of the seats are filled, with a few standing by the doors, waiting for the train to come to a halt.

You’re too afraid to speak up, too startled from his strong hold on you. He leans over to you, but you keep looking straight forward, struggling to maintain a calm composure.

“Say a word and I’ll put a knife in your side,” he says softly, his voice surprisingly gentle with a subtle Irish accent. Your entire body tenses up even more, each muscle becoming stone, while your heart pounds away in your chest.

The train finally stops, and he stands up beside you, pulling you up with him. He leans his head close to yours again. “Just go where I lead you, don’t say anything, don’t resist. And I recommend trying your best to act normal, I don’t want a reason to give my snipers the signal.”

A bitter taste comes into your mouth as terror grasps the edges of your mind. You can’t walk, your legs are fixed beneath you like immovable boulders. Yet somehow, as he pulls you out of the carriage, your legs move with ease, suddenly feeling loose and light. He keeps you pushed slightly in front of him, watching you closely to make sure you follow his orders.

You’re in a trance, only half aware of everything you pass, everywhere you go. You just follow his guidance, walking up, out from the Underground, walking down the streets of London with him close behind you, his hand clamped on your wrist. After walking a distance, though you’re too dazed to tell how far you’ve gone, he pulls you to the curb, where a black limo is parked. He opens the front door on the passenger side and pushes you in, finally releasing your wrist, which you immediately grab and rub, trying to massage some of the warmth back into it. He closes the door, walks around the front of the car and slides himself into the driver’s seat. “Unless you want a bullet in the chest, I recommend not attempting to divert me while I’m driving,” he warns, his voice now up to its normal volume.

You glance over to him, looking for any sign of the possession of a gun and finding nothing. He sees you and, rolling his eyes, explains himself. “Let’s just say I’ve got a system here in London. A web, if you will. My… employees, are everywhere, and when I give them a target, they won’t lose it.” He smiles smugly, slipping the key into the ignition and turning it, the car humming to life.

You turn your head forward again, slowly, fixing your eyes on the road ahead of you as the man pulls out into the street. You restrain yourself from looking over at him again, in fear of what he’ll do if he notices any irregular behavior on your part. You can’t even stay focused on the passing streets and buildings. Your eyes are glazed over with shock, leaving you in a trance-like state.

After nearly half an hour, the car pulls to the curb and stops in front of its destination, one among a row of nearly identical Georgian townhouses. One glance at the row tells you this is a very wealthy part of Greater London – perhaps not Kensington or Chelsea, but clearly worth a great deal of money. This man who has kidnapped you is obviously a man of considerable wealth, if he can afford a house of this size in this part of London. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to let you out, but before you stand up, he turns you away from him, grabs your wrists, and fastens them together behind your back with handcuffs. He then pulls you out of the car, pushes you roughly in front of him, his fingers hooked around the chain of the cuffs, and he leads you to the couple of stone steps that go up to the front door.

Unlocking it, he pushes the door open, shoving you inside before himself, closes the door, locks it. You only get a brief glimpse of the features of the first floor, but it’s enough for you to see the degree of wealth of this man reflected in the house’s décor. The front door opens into a small foyer, which opens up into a larger room, a living room at the opposite end from the foyer, with a good-sized kitchen to the right, next to which are two doorways, closer to the living room than the kitchen. One is a bathroom, and the next door opens to the descending staircase. Another staircase leading upstairs is set on the left side of the main room.

He drags you through the room quickly to the doorway leading down to a basement. It’s dark and chilly, so much different from the first floor, with narrow wooden steps with a waist-level handrail, a bare concrete floor, nearly no light source other than a floor lamp standing by a chair and small round table next to the staircase; and a few narrow windows near the ceiling, letting in filtered light through the fogged glass. Towards the back of the room are storage units and two small metal loops fixed into the wall, one at waist-level and the other at ankle-level. From each loop runs a narrow, tightly woven chain, each of which splits into two more chains. At the ends of the higher split chain, are a set of handcuffs, more secure than the ones currently binding you – and at the ends of the other chain are… shackles. Not stereotypical, dungeon-like ones, but silver steel cuffs that appear to be too large around for wrists. A medium-sized bucket is pushed up against the wall nearby.

You’re finally forced to confront the truth, and get slapped out of your delusional foggy state of unawareness and semi-consciousness.

This man, whoever the hell he is, has abducted you. And he’s holding you captive.

And you didn’t even attempt to resist. You _let_ him take you, never even said a word of objection. Were his threats of snipers or having a knife even _true_?

He pushes you forward towards the restraints, and you try to resist, pushing backwards weakly and attempting to twist away from his grip, but it’s your efforts are fruitless. He easily forces you to the chains and immediately fastens the chained handcuffs around your wrists, then takes off the old ones.

“I’ve got to put the cuffs on your ankles, now, so you can either comply and sit down or have me knock your legs out from under you – Your choice,” he says calmly, a gloating look in his eyes as he watches you sit down obediently with your legs extended straight out in front of you.

He crouches down at your feet, far enough that you can’t kick upward and hit him in the head. You start blubbering miserably as he locks the shackles around your ankles. The noise that comes from your mouth is a slurred cross between crying and weakly begging him to stop. But he just ignores you completely, apart from a malicious thin-lipped smile as he secures the bonds.

“There we go,” he says, standing up, “That should be good. For now, at least,” he mumbles. “Oh, stop crying,” he rolls his eyes. “You’re being so dramatic, so weak, just get ove- ah, shit.” He pulls a vibrating cell phone out of his pocket, checks the screen, and answers it. “Hello?” He looks irritated, already starting to turn away towards the stairs. “Yes, obviously. What do you want?” Pause. Then a sigh. “My _God_ , what did I tell you earlier? Don’t you ever listen to a single thing I say to you?” He starts going up the stairs, and as he does, you notice he reaches into his pocket and starts to pull something out… a knife. He flicks it open, making it subtly visible to you only for a second, confirming what you were wondering about only a moment earlier, before he closes the knife and drops it back into his pocket. He sends another little grin in your direction, then continues making his way upstairs. “No, no, I don’t care, just – let me take care of it, okay? You’ve already done enough damage, I don’t need…” his voice decrescendos into fragments of muffled words once he reaches the top of the stairs, then closes the door behind him.

You’re completely alone now. And only now does the crying really begin. It sinks upon you slowly, starting with a few short, gentle coughs, a couple of tears. Then shallow breath, a burning throat, more tears. Building up more and more until you’re sobbing and gasping for air, sniffling and moaning with hopeless wretchedness and despair, and drowning out any noise coming from the floor above you.


	2. Chapter 2

After a few hours, once you’ve given up calling out for help, you hear someone upstairs, and start screaming again, not even saying anything because you’re too traumatized, just screaming at the top of your lungs, trying to ignore the burning in your throat from shouting out earlier. You hear someone come down the stairs, and stop screaming, praying that it’s not that man from before, the one who kidnapped you. The man who comes down, however, is someone you’ve never seen before. He’s tall, with short blond hair and sharp features. He’s got a thin but muscular build – almost a bit military-esque – and is wearing a fitted grey t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. When he sees you, he just stares, shocked, while you breathe heavily, gasping for air, tears streaming down your face.

The man immediately rushes up to you, grabbing your wrists, which are now chafed and bloody from straining against their fetters, and he asks you what happened, who you are, how you got here. You explain as best as you can, nearly hyperventilating, and his blue eyes darken as you describe the man who abducted you. He looks down and shakes his head slowly in disbelief.

Faint footsteps sound above you, but you’re too preoccupied to notice completely, and you subconsciously dismiss the noise. They walk around slowly, then stop. After a moment, they move slowly towards the door that leads down to the basement, and start descending the stairs.

Finally becoming fully aware of the noise, you look over the man’s shoulder in horror. He turns his head back slowly to see the man – your captor – standing on one of the last steps, one hand on the rail, staring with dark eyes and slightly parted lips at the scene that lays before him. From the way the knuckles of his hand gripping the handrail whiten, and his head slowly oscillates from side to side, you can tell that he’s furious, somehow managing to keep the emotion relatively under control.

The other man rises to his feet slowly, turning to face your captor. The muscles in his neck and shoulders are tense with anger as he storms over to the dark-haired man – who you’re starting to think might be his superior. “What the hell is this?” he demands, gesturing back at you. He reaches the base of the stairs, staring up to meet the other’s icy glare with his own. “Why is she here, what were you _thinking_ when you did this?”

The other’s lips press together tightly, and his eyes narrow, reflecting a reptilian coldness that comes across as nearly inhuman. “Sebastian,” he starts, keeping his voice controlled but clearly suppressing a significant amount of rage, “I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking questions. You know, as I have told you many times, you are not permitted to come down here unless instructed to do so by your boss. And in case you’ve forgotten, it’s _me_ , and only me, who you take orders from.”

The blond-haired man, Sebastian, says nothing, but his eyes are cold with anger and irritation.

“Leave,” the still-nameless man orders, pointing up the stairs, but Sebastian stays rooted where he is, not breaking eye contact. The man’s nostrils flare, and his hand suddenly shoots forward, latching on to the other’s neck, not intending to strangle him, but meant to inflict pain, perhaps, as his fingers dig into the flesh of the other’s neck. Sebastian cringes, but doesn’t attempt to pull away from his boss’s grip.

A maniacal glower glints in the man’s eyes, yet to your surprise, you also see a hint of strange playfulness or mirth of some sort. “Do you really want to be this disobedient, Sebastian? You know very well that I don’t like it when you are. And you ought to be aware that this kind of behavior deserves punishment.” He pauses, just for a second, and, turning his head towards you to lock his unwavering glower with yours, he continues, his words still directed towards Sebastian. “If I find you down here again, she dies.”

You stay frozen where you are, the words not registering in your mind right away. But once they do, you feel the muscles in your throat tense up with terror.

Tightening his grip again, followed by a pained grimace from Sebastian, the dark-haired Irishman averts his gaze back to the other, and leans his head forward, baring his teeth at the man. “Do you understand?” he hisses, clenching his jaw.

Sebastian hesitates, then nods to the best of his ability, and lowers his eyes in defeat. His boss finally releases him from his grip, and Sebastian’s hand immediately comes up to clutch the side of his neck as he rotates his head around to stretch out the muscles. With his head down, he slowly makes his way up the stairs, pausing briefly as he passes behind the other, and turning his head to look at him, then at you, just for a moment, with an air of apology, but also a hint of curiosity (he, too, must be wondering what it is about you that has interested the other man), then goes the rest of the way up, closing the door gently behind him.

Your captor stares up at the door for a few seconds before turning his head forward and stepping down the last few stairs. Once he reaches the bottom, he immediately turns towards you and approaches you with an intimidating stance and expression.

The fear that had slightly faded away as you were watching the interaction between this man and Sebastian begins to creep back into your nerves, until it’s pounding through your bloodstream. You cower away from the man approaching you as far as you can, straining against the cuffs while keeping your eyes glued to his face.

What you see in his dark, dead eyes is even more terrifying than what you’d seen in them earlier. Rather than the rage that radiated from them before, they look empty and cold-blooded, and in the place of emotion is only blankness, detachedness. It’s a look that pierces through you like a sharpened dagger. At this point, you’re too scared to even attempt to scream or cry, so you just whimper softly as he towers over you, then crouches down in front of you. You pull your cuffed hands up to guard your face in case he tries to hit you, and you gasp as you feel a cold hand gently grab your wrists and pull them aside with ease. You keep your head down, with your eyes squeezed shut, when you suddenly feel another cold hand place itself below your chin, tilting your head back up, and turning it forward.

You open your eyes hesitantly and see the man’s pale face, just inches from your own. His eyes are slightly narrowed – though not in a menacing way, rather with a sense of curiosity. He studies your features, examining every detail of your face.

He’s still gripping your wrists in one hand, which he suddenly looks down at. He pulls the wrists up to get a better look at them, with the red, slightly swollen rings circling them where the cuffs lay.

“P-please, sir… don’t… hurt me. Please,” you manage to choke out, trembles wracking your entire body.

He looks back up at your face with mild surprise. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassures you. You’re startled by how gentle and smooth his voice sounds. So different from the harsh, sternly-spoken threats that he uttered when he first captured you, and then when he was talking to Sebastian.

What shocks you even more is when you watch him pull something out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A small cloth. You stare at it in anticipation as he brings it to your wrists, pressing it first to the wounds of one, then the other. You cringe in pain and try to pull away from him. The cloth is warm, and damp with what you had at first assumed was only water, but it stings like hell – more so than water would.

“It’s alright, it’s only rubbing alcohol,” he reassures you again, having glanced up at you for a moment before averting his focus back to your wrists. His voice sounds strangely normal, almost… _caring_. As you try to avert your focus from the pain in your wrists, you stare at his face, which is tilted downward to where he cleans your wounds. His complexion is pale, and his features soft, yet he has defined cheekbones and jawline. His eyebrows are thin and dark, almost feminine in a way, and his dark hair is slicked back in a formal, professional manner.

After a minute or two of silence, he pulls the cloth away from your wrists and glances up at you. You see now just how wide his dark brown eyes are, and how they hold within them a deceiving warmth, masking the coldness that had filled them earlier. Looking at him now somehow calms you, makes you feel relaxed, at peace, and, strangely enough, captivated.

_Maybe I’m not in as much danger as I thought,_ you wonder to yourself.

“Why don’t I go get some bandages to wrap your wrists, so they can heal?” he asks you calmly.

You’re about to nod in response, but you stop yourself. You feel suspicion towards him, realizing you can’t trust this man. “Why are you doing this?” you whisper, voice still shaky, not completely sure if you’re referring to the abduction or the tending to your wounds.

He pauses before answering, turning his head to the side slightly and breaking the stare that he’d been holding with you. When he looks back again, there’s an eerie fierceness in his eyes, and the comforting warmth is gone.

“Now, I wouldn’t want to give that away just yet,” he purrs softly, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. “Where’s the fun in that?” A hesitation, as though he’s debating whether to add something. “Let’s just say… You’ll be of use to me.”

You stare at him silently, not sure if he’s being serious, and uncertain as to what he means. Of use in what way? As an assistant? A slave? A lab rat in some sort of series of warped experiments?

“Be of use to you… How?” you whisper timidly.

He grins chillingly, his eyes narrowing as the coldness slowly creeps back into them.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

After a few terrifying moments of silence, he releases your wrists and rises to his feet again. He doesn’t look back as he strides back to the stairs, but when he’s halfway up them, he stops, turning his head slightly, but not directly facing you or looking at you.

“Oh, and [y/n],” he starts, then turns his head to face you straight on, his mouth gently curving into the same cold grin as before, “The name’s Jim Moriarty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated, so let me know what you guys think of it so far! I'm going to update as soon as I clean up the third chapter, which shouldn't take more than a week or two!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! I'm just starting my first year of college, so I've been busy moving and everything, but I'm finally settled in! I apologize, still no smut yet, but there is a bit of bloodshed in this chapter. Enjoy :)

As soon as he’s gone, a million questions start barreling through your mind. _Who_ is _this man?_ you ask yourself. _How does he know my name, and act as though he’s seen me, or known me, long before I’d ever met him? Why is he doing this? And **what the hell is he planning to do with me?**_

Upstairs, you hear the other man, Sebastian, start to argue with Moriarty.

“What the bloody _hell,_ Jim! Are you out of your fucking mind? We don’t take hostages!”

“She’s not a hostage.” His voice is calm, disinterested.

“Oh, so she’s something else then. And what might that be? Huh?”

No response.

“Damnit, Jim, I don’t know what the hell is going on but I want answers, and I want to know why you’re keeping that girl in our fucking basem-”

You suddenly hear a loud thump that seems to shake the walls. Moriarty, you’re guessing, slamming Seb against the wall.

His voice is [a] hardly audible [hiss], but you manage to pick up what he’s saying. “Listen to me very closely, Moran, before you say another _fucking_ word – when I _wish_ to tell you what I have planned, I will do exactly that, but until then,” his voice, which started off as a hiss, then gradually grew to a low growl, is now rising to a shout. “You will not _fucking_ speak to me like I am a piece of hog’s shit under your boot, do you understand me?” He’s practically seething with anger. At least, that’s what you sense from the floor below.

A pause. You picture Moriarty, his hands fisted in Seb’s jacket, knuckles digging into the taller man’s shoulders as he holds his face inches away from the other’s, breathing heavily, teeth bared like some wild beast.

“…Yes, Boss.”

“ _Good._ ” His voice has dropped back down to something between a hiss and a snarl. You hear him take a step back, then sit nervously as his shoes tap rhythmically against the floor as he walks to another part of the flat, then goes upstairs.

You close your eyes, imagining Seb standing right where Jim left him, leaning his head back against the wall behind him.

Hugging your legs to your chest, you hang your head down to rest your chin on your knees. _How did I end up here?_ you wonder miserably. _What did I do to deserve any of this? Who the hell even is this man – this psychopath?_

 __________________________

You don’t move from your position on the floor, still too scared to do anything else. You remain silent, fearing that if you try shouting again, this “Moriarty” might come down and hurt you. So you just sit, and wait, and after what you think might be a few hours, the little bit of light coming from under the door upstairs goes out, and you’re left in total darkness.

It gets to the point where you can’t even tell if your eyes are open or not. And you keep feeling things brushing against your bare feet or over your arms, and though it feels like there are small bugs or mice around you, you don’t trust your own senses, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

The air grows cold, and the hairs on your skin stand on end. Trying to cling onto as much warmth as possible, you draw your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them as best as you can with cuffed wrists. Your back is pressed against the wall as chills shudder down the length of your body, and a dull numbness creeps into your toes from the cold concrete floor.

The muscles in your throat are too tense for you to cry, although you wish you could, if only to release some of the tension that has been building up in your chest.

You feel horribly lost, with no sense of time, no way of telling if there are rodents or bugs scurrying around you across the floor. You bend your head down into your knees and just pray for morning, for light, so you can be aware of your surroundings for once. To take your mind off of the agonizing sense of vulnerability that eats away at your mind, you try to focus on the burning pain that spreads through your wrists. But even that isn’t enough. The coldness of the room is numbing the pain. So you start straining your wrists, getting the metal to cut into your raw skin, feeling like burning knives slicing into your flesh – Moriarty, never did come back down to dress your wounds. Perhaps it had something to do with the questions you were asking him, maybe you had been too intrusive. You feel hot tears fall onto your cheeks as you twist your arms and pull them apart harder and more roughly, biting your lip as a whimper escapes your mouth. You know it’s unwise to be causing yourself more harm, but if anything, the physical pain serves as a distraction from all else, forcing the rest of your thoughts away from your awareness of reality.

Light suddenly floods into the room from the upstairs door and you freeze as soft footsteps come down the stairs, initially at a regular pace, then quickening after a few steps – perhaps this person is rushing upon seeing what you’re doing to yourself. Your eyes are too impaired by the sudden brightness to see who it is, but they approach you quickly, grabbing your right arm with an icy hand. As your eyes gradually adjust, you see that it’s Moriarty. You instantly try to pull away from him, your feet pushing at the floor in an attempt to separate yourself from him, but his grip is too strong, and you’re far too weak.

“Stop struggling,” he growls, now grabbing both of your arms to hold you still as you continue to writhe around. Your mind is telling you that it’s not safe, that you’re in danger while Moriarty is here, so, though you know it would be in your best interest to comply, you can’t seem to get yourself to do so.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that you’re not going to calm down, so he acts accordingly, and before you have time to process what he’s doing, he plunges a syringe into your upper arm, emptying whatever drug or poison that fills it, into your bloodstream.

Almost immediately, an odd numbness spreads from your arm through the rest of your body. You can’t tell if Moriarty is still there, if the needle is still in your arm, or if the light is even still on. You feel dizzy and nauseous, and horribly exhausted as well. And all around you, there are only splotchy colors filling the reaches of your vision, and a dreadfully harsh ringing in your ears, even worse than before. You can’t feel your body at all, can’t tell if you’re moving or still, sitting or standing. You can’t feel the floor beneath you, it’s as though you’re suspended in a body of water, not sure if you’re even breathing. It is in this state that you feel the last dregs of your consciousness slip away.

 __________________________

You suddenly gasp in for air, feeling as though someone had tried to suffocate you, and violent coughs wrack your body. The light that fills the room is relatively dim, but still painful for your eyes to adjust to from total darkness. Your body feels sluggish and heavy, and the simple act of coughing brings about an aching soreness in your entire being.

A guttural, raspy groan escapes your lips as you try, and fail, to sit up from the position you’re in, lying face-up on the floor. You silence yourself as you hear footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. You try to turn your head, but can only manage to turn your eyes to the side, to see Sebastian coming towards you with a concerned expression on his face.

He seems anxious, looking back over his shoulder as he crouches down next to you. It takes you a moment to register why he seems so nervous. Moriarty. He’d said the night before that if he caught Sebastian down here again, he’d… kill you.

You start trying to cry out in objection, but stop yourself, realizing that making any noise would draw attention from Moriarty, and bring him down here. Sebastian grabs your shoulders with strong, firm hands, and sits you upright with your back against the wall and legs fully extended in front of you. He feels your forehead with the back of his hand, checks your pulse on your neck.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, “I’m just making sure the drug is wearing off properly. You have a slight fever and your heartrate is barely below normal, and both should be normal again once the drug metabolizes completely.” You stare at him with wide eyes, wondering if he was the one who had drugged you. He glances at you, noticing your expression. “This is Jim’s doing, not mine. But I was awake when he did, and he wasn’t making any effort to hide what he was doing. I saw the drug he grabbed, and the syringe. Nothing lethal, just a mild, short-term paralytic, probably used it so you wouldn’t be struggling. You should be fine in an hour or so. And by the way, in the future, you can call me Seb.” Already, you can feel more sensation beginning to circulate through your body again. Seb continues to check your pulse in various places, neck, both wrists – which you suddenly noticed have been wrapped tightly in bandages – ankles, making sure there are no adverse effects from the drug.

A footstep, at the top of the stairs. Seb freezes, squeezing his eyes shut. He knows he’s in trouble. And that you are, too. You feel your face contort into an expression of terror, as you watch the black, scuff-less dress shoes step down another step, the grey trousers, leading up to a matching grey suit, fitted perfectly to the slender frame of the dark-haired Irishman. He looks at neither of you, head tilted downward as he watches his feet descend the stairs, to the bottom, where he stops, stands upright, head tilted slightly back and to the side in what appears to be restrained anger, and turns to face the two of you.

Seb doesn’t turn around, just hangs his head, still crouched at your side. Moriarty slowly approaches, one steady step at a time, keeping his gaze focused on Moran. He reaches the point just behind Seb, taking a moment to just look down at him coldly, before pulling out a handgun, cocking it, and placing the end of the barrel inches from the back of Seb’s head. Seb stays still, other than the raising of his hands to shoulder-level, as if in surrender.

“Fall back, Tiger,” Moriarty says in a smooth, suave voice, seemingly so calm and collected. Sebastian slowly rises to his feet, keeping his hands up on either side of his head, and takes a few steps away from you, before turning around to face Moriarty straight on, a look of burning anger in his eyes. “Now back off,” Moriarty orders, nodding his head to the side with his gun still pointed directly at Seb’s head. But Seb stays rooted where he is, glowering at Moriarty, who just sighs. “I said _back off, Moran!”_ he barks, suddenly losing his composure. His breathing is heavier, shoulders rolled forward in a more aggressive stance. Sebastian backs away slowly, breaking his heated eye contact with his boss.

Moriarty turns around slowly to face you, and you draw your legs in, pressing yourself more tightly against the wall. The gun is now pointed directly at your head, with Moriarty’s face beyond it, portraying an expression of degradation and disgust. The two of you remain perfectly still for a few agonizing moments, you with your heart pounding in your ears, and panic pulsing through your bloodstream, and him with his unshaking hand pointing the gun straight at its target. He takes a deep breath in, and, to your surprise, pulls his arm away, only to step forward and whip the gun against the side of your head, forcing you onto the ground.

You cry out, feeling no pain at first, but gradually sensing it from deep in your head, as it works its way to the surface. Your vision is blurred, ears are ringing, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth. You attempt to prop yourself up on your hands and knees, but your efforts are cut short as a foot slams into the side of your ribcage, forcing all the air out of your chest as you fall back heavily onto the floor, hitting your chin against the concrete and sending waves of agony through your head. Strong hands grab your shoulders and turn you onto your back roughly. You see only a glimpse of Moriarty, looking at you with the same peculiar expression of controlled anger, before his rock-hard fist slams into your cheekbone.

He backs away for a minute, taking off his suit jacket and tie, unbuttoning the top button of his white dress shirt and rolling up the sleeves halfway up his forearms while turning back to Sebastian. You hear him shout something at him – though you can’t make out what he says – followed by a pair of footsteps going up the stairs, and then Moriarty is back, kneeling at your side, attacking you brutally, relentlessly, with blood – your blood – staining his knuckles.

He continues to beat you until you can’t even feel the pain of the impact of his hands or feet, his elbows or knees, because your entire body is in so much pain. You try struggling against him at first, but give up soon after he begins abusing you. You just let him hurt you, praying that it will end soon, whether with him stopping, or with your unconsciousness. He _did_ say he would kill you, and right now, you can only hope that, if that’s still his plan, death isn’t too far off.

You are still conscious when he stops, but barely. You’ve never been in this much pain in your life, with every inch of your body, both the surface and your insides, screaming out in agony. You feel your own blood drying on your face, around your nose and over your lips, which are already beginning to swell. You just stare straight up at the ceiling with your eyes half-shut, unable to do anything else, waiting for relief from the miserable state your body is in.

After several minutes, you finally gain the energy to turn your head to the side and look at Moriarty. He’s turned mostly away from you, wiping the blood from his hands with a white cloth. You can only see one side of his face, but you can still detect traces of anger, as well as tiredness. He looks worn out, dark circles pulling at his eyes, shoulders slouched forward, legs not quite straightened. Something tells you that he’s tired, not just from the physical exertion, but from something else that’s been bothering him. Maybe it’s related to his work, the stress from it wearing away at him, and he simply used this as a way of venting all that pent-up anger.

He pulls out the chair from the table he’s standing in front of, and collapses into it, facing you now, with one elbow on the side of the table to his left, and his chin resting on his fist. He scowls at you darkly, his eyes taking on their typical, abyss-like depth and emptiness. As your gaze wanders from his face, you notice the blood that stains his shirt. There’s a lot. And you see from his hands that his own knuckles are scratched and marked with his own blood, the skin having split when making repeated contact with your helpless body.

Too miserable to make any further observations, you turn your head back, looking directly above you, letting your eyes drift shut and welcoming the numbing unconsciousness that takes hold of you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this one didn't take quite as long as the last! So here's some more plot, a little more gore, and we are slowly nearing the smuttier chapters, so stay tuned...

The next few days blur together, and to pass the time, you have nothing to do but sit or lie down, trying unsuccessfully to distract yourself from the pain. Moriarty, acting normal – quiet, collected, and the slightest bit irritated, as close to normal as he seems to get – starts coming down daily, once or twice, to bring you food, then just sits in the chair, watching you eat, as you struggle with the use of your hands for any silverware, your weak hands trembling as you bring the food to your lips. And he just sits there, drinking coffee or reading the newspaper, occasionally glancing up at you and watching you with the slightly angered, smoldering brown eyes. Sometimes you wonder if he is actually focusing on watching you during these times, or if he is just lost in thought behind his gaze. Either way, you find it unsettling at first, but gradually grow accustomed to it.

He never says anything. And neither do you.

One day, you think it may be the fourth or fifth since you got there, you sit around all day and Moriarty never shows up. You hear a single pair of footsteps upstairs – only Seb’s. Over the past few days, you’d learned to recognize each of them based on their footsteps. Seb’s are slightly heavier, slower paced, deeper, with the thumping of combat boots against hardwood. Moriarty’s, on the other hand, are lighter, timed closer together, the crisp tapping of dress shoes against the wooden floorboards.

The hours pass, you sit on the floor, tracing your fingers through the dust, making patterns which you sweep away once you grow tired of them. You glance at the wall clock that Moriarty brought down two days before, lit by a floor lamp that is well out of your reach. It’s 9:27 PM. Jim typically brings food down at around 10 AM, and again at 7 or 8 PM. But he hadn’t showed up at either time. Hell, you don’t even think he’s home.

You start to wonder why he would be gone all day like this. You had begun to depend on him for food and even, to your regret, for company. He’d become the only source of human contact that you could get, even if it was always filled with silence, coldness, and perhaps a subconscious hatred in the air between the two of you.

But if he had planned to be gone this long, wouldn’t he have had Seb bring down some food for you? Or was he still opposed to any contact between the two of you? Whatever the case, you’re starving, and lonely, and cold – although Jim has been bringing down some extra changes of clothes for you, but nothing too nice. Or warm, for that matter. What strikes you as odd, however, is that the clothes he brings fit you well, as though he knows your measurements. It’s likely he’s just observed your frame and figured out the size of your clothing.

The clock reads 11:18 PM when you hear him come in. You can tell by the sound of his movements that he’s exhausted, drained from a difficult day; his footsteps are heavier, slower, not as crisp. But what had he been doing? Based on little bits and pieces of conversation that you’d heard upstairs the past few days, you guessed that he ran some sort of business making under-the-table deals with people, they would come to him, offer money, in return for him helping them carry out some illegal task or request. Was today’s absence related to that?

Above you, you hear Jim preparing food sluggishly, with dishes clanging loudly together. He comes down with the usual – soup, bread, apple, water. He drops the tray where he usually does, just within your reach, then drags himself over to the chair. Instead of facing you as he usually does, he remains turned in towards the table, resting both elbows on it and dropping his head into his hands.

He sits like this the entire time, hands gripping his temples, eyes squeezed shut, a stern, aggravated expression mapped out on the lines of his face. His only movement is the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes slowly.

When you’re done eating, you put the dishes back on the tray, push it towards him, then crawl back to your typical place, sitting against the wall. He doesn’t react at first, just sitting at the table, but after another minute of silence, he pinches the bridge of his nose, and rises to his feet. Despite the prominent fatigue in his features, he still manages to look put-together and professional in his sharp, slim-fitting suit, his hair only slightly tousled from where his fingers wove through it.

He doesn’t even look at you as he slouches over to pick up your tray. You want to ask if he’s okay, but at the same time, you don’t care in the least, so you decide against it. In fact, you’re glad to see him suffering like this, after all he’s done to you.

________________         

The next three weeks go the same way, with Jim bringing down one or two meals a day, occasionally not until nearly midnight. He continues to bring a fresh change of clothes every few days, along with certain little things, like a thin blanket, to make your imprisonment slightly less unpleasant. Your body gradually heals from the damage caused by his beating – luckily, he didn’t seem to have broken any of your bones. Perhaps that was intentional, and he wanted you to be able to heal without any sort of costly treatment. Although you likely had gotten a concussion, but that, too, seems to be healing.

One night, when you can’t fall asleep, you get carried away feeling your way around your range of movement, a simple half-circle with a roughly six-foot radius – the length of the chains that bind you, as they extend from the points where they’re fixed to the wall. You crawl over to a tall metal storage cabinet, sitting against the wall to your right, only a portion of it within reach, and try to see if there’s anything of use beneath it. It has four short legs, holding it up about 3 inches, a large enough space for you to fit your hand under. As you reach under, swiping through the cobwebs that you’ve become all too used to, you feel a couple of little metal pieces, the occasional bent, rusty nail, nothing that could possibly be of any use to you. Your cuffs are far too secure for you to even try to pick the locks on them.

You let one hand skim over the underside of the metal storage unit, collecting dust as it slides across the sleek surface, with a few crossed metal rods bolted to the base for support. One of the bars feels like it’s dislodged from its position. The end of it that’s closest to you (and the only end within your reach), you realize, is missing a screw, and isn’t fixed to the corner post. It’s still fixed strongly on the other side, but you decide not to let that discourage you. Grabbing your end of the rod with both hands, you tug at it, and try jerking it to the sides to see if you can loosen in from the other end. It would help if you could actually see any of this, but the darkness conceals every facet of the room. Luckily, the cabinet seems to be full of some heavy materials (and of course the doors are fixed shut, locked, so you have no hope of getting into it and using any of those materials); but the heaviness of the unit keeps it from moving at all as you work at loosening the rod. You continue to twist and pull at it, and it feels like the screw at the other end is getting loose.

Several minutes pass and you can’t sense any further progress. You’re putting a significant effort into staying as quiet as possible, which limits the amount of exertion you can put into trying to wrench the pole free from the cabinet. Pivoting it like a lever, you pull it from side to side, nearly dropping it from your sweat-slicked hands at one point. It’s no use, you think to yourself. Even with light, you’d need to be able to reach the other end, and also have a supply of tools at your disposal, if you really wanted to dislodge it. Wiping your hands on your trousers, you decide to give it one last go, gripping the pole tightly and wrenching it to the side, trying to twist it as you do so. You try to ignore the stinging in your wrists and the soreness in your arms, focusing solely on the prospect of getting this pole and using it for God knows what.

Somehow, your last attempt turns out to be successful, as you hear the small metal screw fall to the floor with a soft clink. Luckily, the pole still has a metal support on the other end, so it doesn’t just fall to the floor. Carefully, making as little sound as possible, you pull out the rod, making sure it doesn’t drag across the concrete. You sit up triumphantly with the pole in your hands, examining it as you try to think of possible uses. It’s about a meter long, and hollow down the middle. But it’s still strong and unbendable.

Strong enough to act as a weapon.

Strong enough to really hurt someone, possibly even kill them.

Strong enough to get _revenge_.

________________

Fortunately, the next day follows a more regular schedule, and Jim doesn’t spend all day away. At 10:15 AM, you hear him upstairs, pacing around to put together your next meal. You’re sitting in your usual spot against the wall, this time slightly closer to the storage unit, under which you’d placed the metal rod, pressed against the wall.

You’d spent hours last night planning exactly what you were going to do, how you would execute your plan. Jim would come down with the food, place it within your reach (over the past few weeks, he’d started placing it slightly closer, having gained some of your trust). As he would turn around to go to the chair, you’d grab one arm and pull him forcefully to the ground, go grab your weapon before he had a chance to get up, and get to work beating the life out of the psychotic bastard.

You try your best to appear calm and still, as you usually are when he comes down. As he comes down the steps, you notice his outfit is slightly different from usual. He typically comes down in a full suit, as if taking a break in the middle of his work, but today, he’s wearing a dark waistcoat and tie, and he’s not wearing his jacket. Recalling the event from weeks before, you feel your eyes narrow the slightest bit, and the hatred that you felt on that miserable day hits you again, right in the pit of your stomach.

He walks up briskly, tray in his hands. “Eat quickly, I’ve got somewhere to be,” he articulates. In your lap, your hands tighten into fists. _Just a few more seconds, a few more steps and I can make my attack_.

Luckily, Jim seems too preoccupied with his own thoughts to pay any extra attention to you, or your expression. He crouches down, dropping the tray of food on the floor, a few steps into your range. As he turns and starts to rise to his feet, you leap to your feet and lurch forward, grabbing his right arm with both hands, one on the upper arm, the other on his wrist, which for once feels warm against your chilled hands. You cringe as the handcuffs relentlessly slash away at your forearms, above where the bandages are.

Without hesitation, you yank him down roughly as he shouts out in surprise. As he hits the floor, you twist his arm until you feel the pop of his shoulder dislocating. He cries out, grabbing his shoulder with the other hand. You use this time to run back and grab the rod. As you turn back to face him, you watch him quickly sit up, letting his arm hang down, then leaning back. To your surprise, after a moment, his arm pops back into place, and he massages his shoulder with his opposite hand. He clearly knows what he’s doing when it comes to tending to minor combative injuries. But he has no way of defending himself from what’s coming next.

You charge straight at him, bringing the metal pole down towards his head, which he manages to protect with his arms just in time, but he still is hit straight on with the powerful impact. He grunts in pain as you raise the rod again, bringing it down on his shoulder. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you watch him with strange satisfaction, writhing in pain on the floor, hitting him repeatedly with your weapon, in his side, his neck, shoulders, stomach, covered head. What’s odd is that he remains relatively quiet, only letting out the occasional grunt of pain when he’s hit with the pole, and as you step back for a moment to catch your breath, you hear him take in a rugged breath and scream out Sebastian’s name urgently.

The metal of your rod clangs against the concrete as you drop it, then go back over to where Moriarty lies on the floor, trying to back away from you, his body heaving with gasps, and stains of blood soaking through his shirt. You take him by the shoulders and drag him closer within your range again. You kneel down over him, with one knee on either side side of his torso, and repeatedly slam your fists into his head, spitting out obscenities as you do so. Beneath you, Jim grunts with each blow, and you half expect him to start begging you to stop, but no intelligible words make it past his lips. Several times you notice that, as he recovers from each blow, he turns his head to face you with a chilling, lifeless stare, with only a shadow of anger. Though he winces in pain every time you hit him, he does nothing to fight back or try to push you off him. Yet the cold-blooded gaze makes it obvious that his submission is not a sign that he’s given up. No, rather, the opposite. It’s a silent way of taunting you, reminding you that you’ve dropped to his same level, the detached, numb creature mercilessly attacking half-dead prey. Nevertheless, the raw anger that pulses through your veins whenever you see that twisted, bloody face staring back at you, drives you to let the animalistic trance continue to control you. Clutching your hands together – all you can really do with them while they’re bound by the cuffs – you drive them down against his head, knocking it to the side and slashing a deep cut into his cheekbone from the cuffs.

You sense his breathing slowing and weakening below you as you release your anger onto him, finding great pleasure in his suffering and watching his efforts to conceal his agony fade as his consciousness slips away, with only one objective in your mind: to kill this inhuman creature, and to make it as painful and horrible for him as you can. His face and neck are marked with cuts, some shallow, but others deep and oozing with blood. Already you see bruises and inflammation forming across his features.

You keep driving your fists together into his skull, not even stopping between blows, watching him lie still beneath you as more blood seeps from his wounds. His blood-soaked lips part in a grimace to reveal a mouth coated with the deep scarlet of thick blood. Your arms slow, and you start to feel the effects of exhaustion taking hold on your body. Still you see the slightest rise and fall of Jim’s chest beneath you, and the barely visible twitch of his eyes moving behind closed eyelids. With the little strength you have left, you prepare to bring down the final blows into his head and kill him, but someone suddenly grabs you from behind, pulling you back towards the wall as you scream and flail your limbs, trying to free yourself from this person’s grip.

Sebastian drags you away from Jim, before jogging back over to his blood-soaked figure and dragging him well out of your range. You clumsily roll onto your knees and try to crawl back over before you can no longer reach him, but to no avail. Seb sits Jim up slightly, holding his head in place as he checks the pulse in his neck through the slick [layer] membrane of blood that coats his skin. Jim’s head lolls slightly in Seb’s hand, and his eyes open slightly, unfocused and drowsy at first, but quickly finding you and focusing in on you. You growl at him and strain against your bindings, little more than a feral, rabid beast, but Seb comes back over to you, grabbing your arms and pulling them behind your back as he restrains you.

“Back before you chained me up in here,” you start, voice trembling with anger and frustration, “I had a _family_ , I had _friends_ , I had a _life_ , you fucking bastard.” You strain against Seb’s grip on your upper arms, trying to get closer to the bloodied Moriarty, who’s crawling back across the floor, away from you. He looks up with eyes filled with hatred and loathing, a face streaked with blood and marked with darkening bruises.

“Family you’re completely out of touch with, friends that no longer care for you after you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with them, and a life you so willingly wasted away?” he gargles through the blood in his mouth, teeth clenched both in pain and in animosity. His speech is slurred, and blood drips from his mouth as the words roll past his lips.

You suddenly stop straining, and just stare at him with shock and disgust. _How does he know any of that?_ You had never mentioned anything about your life to him before. But this proved it: he was watching you before, whether through microphones or cameras planted in your flat, or by tapping into your phone calls, or other potential methods of revealing different aspects your personal life.

Now that Moriarty is further out of your reach, Seb releases you and goes over to help him. The blood-soaked mess of a man slings one arm over Seb’s shoulders, continuing to stare at you as he is pulled to his feet, and dragged towards the stairs with Seb’s assistance. In his eyes you can see that he knows he’s won. You may have beaten him to near death, caused him excruciating agony and injuries, but he has just shown that he is capable of tapping into the deepest and most sensitive part of you, the part you’d rather was forgotten. He is manipulating you from the inside out.


	5. Chapter 5

For the remainder of the day, you just sit in the middle of the floor, heart racing with fury and loathing and fear and confusion and sadness. Your clothes are damp and sticky with drying blood, and the metallic stench burns in your nostrils. The metal rod was taken away from you, and everything within your grasp which could be moved in any way was pushed out of reach, leaving you with nothing but the wall and floor around you, and the chains fixed into the stone of the wall.

The tray with your food sits where it was placed, the food smashed, some bits tainted with small droplets of blood, and the water spilled from the struggle. But you have no appetite, anyway. You feel sick with hatred and shock, and with the sensation of blood – _his_ blood – drenching you. You have no clothes to change into, nothing to do with yourself but sit and wait, yet nothing to wait for.

Nobody comes down for the rest of the day, no food or drink, but no hunger or thirst, either. Your mouth feels parched, your tongue thick and dry, but the thought of bringing anything to your lips, even a glass of water, makes you gag with repulsion. You never move from your place sitting against the wall. Your knees are pulled against your chest, ankles crossed, arms hugging your bent legs. You manage to stay awake through the whole night, unable to slow your heart rate enough to rest. At first, you’d thought it might’ve just been from the anger, and that it would pass, but now you recognize it as a sign of panic and shock. You’re not sure if you’re simply telling yourself not to move, or if you’ve been paralyzed by the shock of the all too recent events. You don’t even attempt to move, so you have no way of telling.

But you don’t care. Because in your head, you keep replaying the scene from earlier in the day, with Moriarty twisting and grimacing under the sheer force of the metal pole, soaking in a puddle of his own blood; the way the rod shook in your hands with each impact, sending vibrations halfway up your arms. You recall the way his typically calm or stern face distorted into an expression of utter pain, until it became too difficult for you to tell exactly what expressions he was making, due to the blood and deformation of his face from the impact of your fists barreling against his flesh.

And now, as you think of this, you feel no pleasure or strength. You see it like a dream, a nightmare, with only the putrid smell of his blood on your clothes reminding you that it was real. Nausea gropes through your stomach at the memory of the sensation of the metal pole shaking in your hands each time it whipped against Moriarty’s helpless body. Then the hard bones of his face and skull against your knuckles, and the thickness of the blood as it seeped onto your fists. You feel appalled, disgusted with yourself. What you did was no human act. It was the behavior of a savage, a wild animal clawing and beating away at its dying prey. You’re reminded of the way he looked at you when Sebastian took him away, realizing that at that point, you were no better, no more human than he had been when he beat you.

But here, in this room, you know you are never the predator, and never will be.

The predator is never the one stuck on the leash, with prey frolicking around it just out of reach. The predator never gives up and lets exhaustion take hold before it has achieved the slaughter of its prey. The predator never lets the prey slink away, with mocking words and a gloating look in its eyes.

No, here, where you are now, you will always be the prey, and Moriarty the predator, picking away at you as you rot into nonexistence in this hellhole of a prison.

You blink once and stare at the wall across from you.

Let the air circulate through you, as you sit, and wait for nothing in particular.

Blink. Breathe. Sit. Wait. Blink, breathe, sit, wait, wait, wait…

_________________

The next day, Seb comes down, carrying a box of wires, tools, and a variety of other metal materials. Avoiding eye contact with you completely, he strides over to the corner of the room where the table and floor lamp are, grabs the chair to pull it closer to the corner. From the box, he pulls several tools out, and a bucket to throw scraps in.

For the next three hours, you watch him install a security camera right in the corner where the two walls and the ceiling meet. When he’s done, he packs up, goes back upstairs, and you’re left with the unblinking eye of the camera staring at you, a small red light blinking just next to the lens.

For the first time in nearly 24 hours, you move, but only slightly. You turn yourself barely to the right, so you face the camera directly, lift your eyes up to stare into its eye. Then blink, breathe, sit, wait, watch. Watch and be watched. Seb comes down again soon after with a bottle of water, and forces you to drink it. He doesn’t say a word to you, nor you to him.

No food that day, or the next, but water each day. _He’s starving me to death,_ you tell yourself, accepting the fact that Jim is finished with you and is going to let you die off slowly and miserably, providing you with water simply to prolong your suffering. Only the third day after the incident does Sebastian finally come down with food. You don’t acknowledge him in any way, keeping your gaze locked with the camera’s cold, relentless stare.

You hear the tray get placed on the floor, but don’t even turn your head, or shift your eyes. All that goes through your mind is _blink, breathe, sit, wait, watch, starve_. You’re not going to eat. No, you’ll let Jim get what he wants, you’ll let him win, you’ll let yourself suffer to the moment of your death, with you in this exact spot, this exact position, the only change being the loosening of your arms around your legs, the limpness of your legs and body, and your head would drop forward, hanging low with not a single ounce of life to hold it up anymore.

The next two days, same routine. Refusing to eat, although Sebastian continues to force you to take water, which tastes like disgusting poison against your leathery tongue and throat, feels like burning embers hammering against the insides of your mouth and stomach. And it doesn’t help that he puts no effort towards being gentle, instead gripping your jaw and forcing your mouth open so he can pour the water down your throat. But you never break your stare with the camera. Sometimes, you’ll take the briefest glance at the clock, look away, then check it again seconds later to see that hours have passed. Perhaps you were unconscious, asleep. Maybe you were just lost in a trance.

You keep hearing soft whispers and whimpers around you, and sometimes see dull flashing lights or fast movement at the edges of your vision. You accept these starvation-induced hallucinations as your new reality, ignoring them to focus on the glaring eye of the camera, the camera that laughs at you, mocks you, its intimidating stare, which now twists and distorts itself before you, sometimes glaring with a reddish glow, sometimes sending cold breezes in your direction, which wrap around you and tighten against your flesh, strangling you, freezing you, until you can’t move, can’t hear or smell or taste or feel, and on some occasions, can’t even see.

One day, when Sebastian comes down – you’ve given up staring at the camera and now spend your time entertaining yourself with the hallucinations, some of which are terrifying, while others are comforting in a strange way – he just brings a glass of water, a slight change from the usual bottled water he’d been bringing down previously. He approaches you, bringing it to your lips and tipping into your mouth a cold, bitter fluid. You gag and spit it out at first, but Sebastian pinches your nose, tilts your head back, forcing you to let it roll icily down your throat.

_They’re drugging me_ , you realize, immediately feeling the effects of some sort of toxin start taking place. Your vision becomes dull and steady over the course of the next hour, the hallucinations fading and disappearing. Your muscles go loose, and you collapse onto the floor, no longer possessing the strength to curl yourself up. Slowly, horrible aching corrupts your previously numb body, and inside of you, your gut clenches and cramps up with hunger. A rough groan forces itself out of your mouth. You don’t even recognize the sound that your vocal chords emit. It sounds high pitched and dry, cracking like the earth in a desert. Overcome by a wave of nausea, you roll onto your side and feel your stomach heave, but nothing comes out. You feel dreadful, and you want nothing more than to return to your previous numb bliss.

You wish you hadn’t taken the medicine. You miss the company of the hallucinations.

_________________

The next day, Sebastian brings down the same thing, and you don’t object. You’ve given up. The medicine now helps take some of the aching away, as well as the nausea, but you still feel far from being well. That night, you decide you’ve had enough.

Haunted day by day with terrifying thoughts and memories and realizations, you’ve been trapped in a living nightmare. You feel yourself going more insane as time progresses and it’s horrifying. Dragging yourself to your wall, sitting against it for the first time since first being given the medicine – or perhaps longer, you can’t recall where you’d been during your hallucinogenic state – and lean back against it. You raise your two hands and stare at the handcuffs linking them. After a few moments, and a final breath of air, you pull your wrists back, so the chain linking the cuffs presses into your neck. Behind your head, your hands stretch to reach the wristlet of the opposite hand, and you wedge your fingers into it so that, even once you lose consciousness, the cold metal’s deadly grip on your throat won’t loosen up.

You feel the metal of the cuffs pierce through the skin of your neck, and you welcome the pain, welcome the sensation of your air being cut off completely, the empowering and freeing sensation of near-unconsciousness, near-death, swimming through your mind. You feel your diaphragm and lungs tug insistently at your throat, starved completely of air. Your chest throbs, and the sound of your blood pumping through your body suddenly grows loud in your ears. Your vision fades into black, you hear your heartrate slow, the ache in your chest growing more painful, until it’s stabbing into you, tearing your lungs apart, sending agony shooting into your head. You force yourself not to writhe around or pull away your hands, and between your slowing heartbeat, you hear a faster-paced thudding, distant and rapid. You feel the coldness of death suddenly grip your wrists, as if to pull you away and drag you into nothingness.

But the icy grip doesn’t carry you off. Instead, you feel it pulling at your hands and the deathlike hold of the cuffs around your throat immediately loosens and vanishes. The muscles of your throat briefly remain crushed together, still blocking out the dreadful, torturous air. But when the scratches on your neck are exposed to open air, your throat muscles contract with pain, then loosen suddenly and reopen your windpipe. Air rushes into your chest with a stabbing pain, and you try to scream out in rage, but your chest is heaving with the rapid intake and expulsion of air, and you can’t make a sound. You feel something softer and warmer cover the cuts on your neck, wrapping over the wounds tightly. But the blood flows continuously, and the cloth is soon pulled away and replaced with another, which is pressed against your throat by the same cold hands as before.

Your vision fades back in, dim at first, but gradually increasing in clarity. Your eyes widen as you see the same dark-haired Irishman again, his hands locked against your throat, staring intensely at the piece of cloth which you feel soaking up the blood that oozes from your neck. You notice that his face is bruised here and there, with a noticeable gash on his cheekbone that’s still healing – of course, from when you’d beaten him. He shows no signs of being in pain, though, focusing only on your own injuries. The wound must be pretty severe, judging by the amount of blood you see on the previous cloth. You’d probably worsened the cuts when struggling for air, twisting your head and forcing the sharp edges of the cuffs to dig deeper into the vulnerable flesh of your neck. Jim pulls you away from the wall and lays you down flat on the concrete as he puts more pressure against your neck, slowing the blood flow from the gashes. His features display focus and concern as he checks over the rest of your body, wiping the fresh blood off your wrists and hands, cleaning dried blood from the clawed marks over your upper arms and collarbones. Where did those come from? You’re certain you didn’t do that to yourself, and Sebastian surely hadn’t. Had it happened during your trances, your hallucinations?

Whatever the case, Jim doesn’t stop until he’s halted your blood loss completely. He sits back on his heels, and looks up, panting, with his hands – stained red with your blood – clutching his hips. He wipes sweat from his brow and stares at you with what appears to be relief. When he notices that your partially opened eyes are staring straight back at him, he turns his head away to the side, a distant, pained look in his eyes. A minute or two passes, and he stands up slowly and shakily, then leaves, slouching slowly up the stairs.

You stare after him in shock. _I was so close and he ruined it_ , you scream within your head. _I was almost free, I almost made it out, and he ruined it all._ Why did he save you? Does he want you to suffer longer before you die? Or does he really want to keep you alive? A few minutes later, he returns. You notice that not only his hands, but also his forearms and his shirt, are stained with your blood. And his appearance resembles that from the day he’d abused you. Wearing black slacks, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, stained with traces of your blood, but for a different reason this time. Even with the blood staining his skin and clothes, however, even with his tired, slouched posture, something about him radiates strength, confidence, experience. And in his dark, tired eyes is a glint of something more, something you hadn’t noticed before – almost like you’re seeing life in them for the first time. There are undeniable traces of wisdom and knowledge in his eyes, as well. As he approaches you, you notice that in one hand, he’s gripping a small key, and in the other, he holds a bottle. He kneels down at your side, setting down the bottle before he grabs your wrists, and unlocks the cuffs with the key, taking them off of you gently, dropping them in his pocket. With his hands free again, he unwraps the weeks-old bandages from your wrists, rolling them up and setting them aside. Your wrists are coated with dried blood, still inflamed, though the cuts have mostly healed over.

He picks up the bottle again – rubbing alcohol. Removing a clean piece of cloth from his pocket, he unscrews the cap and dampens the cloth with the clear, strong-smelling liquid. You let him grasp your hands one at a time, and brace yourself for the pain. Your teeth clench together, your eyes squeeze shut, and you try to hold back a whimper, unsuccessfully. Once you feel the cloth pull away and the stinging of your wrists begin to fade, you open your eyes and see him holding a roll of fresh bandages, which he wraps slowly and carefully around each of your wrists, securing them with medical tape. Once the wounds have been sufficiently tended to, he stands up and leaves without a single word, and doesn’t return.

A few hours later, Sebastian comes down with a glass juice, to help replenish your blood sugar, as you’d lost a significant amount of blood from the wounds in your neck. You drink it willingly, disregarding the way it burns as it rolls down your throat, and trying to ignore the way Sebastian looks at you, with concern that seems to be concealing traces of anger. Of course he’s angry, after what you did to Jim several days before.

“I don’t get it,” you croak, wincing with pain, voice rough and barely recognizable. “I nearly kill your boss, then he comes down and keeps me from killing myself, and you just – you’re just going along with it all? Aren’t you like his bodyguard or something, shouldn’t you kill me for what I did?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that, it’s far more complex than you’d think.” His voice is soft and deep. “Yes, I follow his orders, and yes, you should not have gone so far as you did, but there are a lot of things about all of this that I don’t understand, and it’s not my place to object.”

“So you just sit back and do what he tells you,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “You just let him manipulate you, control your every action, without questioning it?”

“I question it all the time, but there’s a limit to what I can and should voice. I know my boundaries.”

“But what about earlier, when you first found me? You were helping me then, even going against his orders.”

“I crossed a line then. Several. That was before I knew any of what he had planned, and I didn’t understand what he was doing.” He sighs. “I felt… betrayed, in a way, because he never told me about it ahead of time. Usually, he confides in me, discloses information with me, so when he didn’t, I took it badly. Even know, he hasn’t explained his full intentions to me, but I have a general idea.”

“And what’s that, exactly?”

He chuckles. “You think I’m in any position to tell you?” Now that you’re done drinking, he takes your glass away and stands up. “That’s not how it works here.”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t really informed of the rules before I was brought here, I guess I must’ve missed the info session,” you respond coldly.

He looks down at you, his expression unreadable, but you sense that it’s a look of scorn, with perhaps the slightest bit of sympathy. “If you want to complain, don’t come to me.” His tone is cold. “I’m not the one who brought you here.”

“Oh, right, you’re just the sniper who helps him carry out illegal acts for other criminals,” you scoff. You’d picked up that bit about his job as a sniper from overhearing fragments of conversations upstairs.

For a moment, you think he’s about to say something in response, but he decides against it. Instead, he glances at his watch as he starts walking away. “I shouldn’t still be down here. My _boss_ has advised me to spend minimal time with you,” he informs you with iciness in his voice, emphasizing Jim’s position, as if to assert the fact that he’s only down here for business, not for providing you with social contact. With that, he returns upstairs, leaving you on your own again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, kiddos, good news - the next chapter is gonna get a little more interesting, if you know what I mean *wink wink*. Hope you enjoyed this one!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

The next two weeks are uneventful, no major occurrences, just being brought food, medicine for pain, and a topical solution for the cuts on your skin. Only Jim brings them down, now, likely because he trusts himself more than Seb to keep closer watch over you. Then sits in the chair, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in one hand, while staring blankly at the floor, not even at you. The fingers of his other hand tap absentmindedly against the surface of the table.

While you eat, you try not to focus on it, but find yourself gazing at him frequently, studying him, observing his slightest movements. You notice that he still seems to be recovering from your attack, as he limps slightly when he walks and his face is still faintly marked by some of the deeper cuts. You don’t feel guilt for what you did – he deserved it for beating you, anyway. And he’d had his chance to punish you and he did, nearly resulting in your death, so you feel that the two of you are even. At least, as even as a prisoner and their captor can get.

But as the cuts continue to heal, you notice more of his soft features, his gentle expressions, a strange façade of innocence in his wide, deep brown eyes. You can tell he’s decently sophisticated, if anything, in the way that he stares off while you eat or take medicine. Though he remains still, behind his eyes you sense an infinite rush of thoughts, streaming at speeds nearly unimaginable to the typical person. He’s got a brilliant mind, it would seem, and though you hold a strong grudge against him for the other aspects of who he is, you can’t help but get the impression of a superior intellect. He evidently runs a successful business (based on what you’ve overheard from his conversations with Seb upstairs), well enough to maintain a more than decent pay, hence his numerous perfectly-fitted suits.

One day, as he comes down to bring your dinner at around 11:00 PM – another one of his later nights – you immediately recognize his grey, sharp suit, as the one that he’d worn on the day he brought you here. He typically wore dark suits, but occasionally a lighter grey one like this. His tie is a pale gold hue, almost white, with a needle-like tie pin halfway down. His dark hair is slicked back as usual, giving him the crisp, sharp appearance of a wealthy business professional. He places your tray in front of you, goes back to sit in the chair. He rests one elbow on the table, a loose fist pressed up to his lips as he first looks at the table, then watches you with bored, disinterested eyes. Typically, he doesn’t look at you this directly. He'll sometimes be preoccupied typing away on his phone or laptop, or just staring at his hands clasped together on the table. But now, he does none of those, instead studying you, eyes flicking over you lazily as if he’s trying to mentally take you apart and piece you back together again, figure out how you work, as though you’re some sort of machine, and interpret what thoughts are drifting across your mind. And you just stare straight back at him, your gaze locking on his face while he looks you over, head to toe.

You try to read into his features, but it only seems as though he’s observing you. At one point, his eyes flick up to your face and stay there, now sharing with you the unwavering stare. It feels like he’s reading you, reading your whole life story, all your thoughts and beliefs, just from what he sees beyond your irises.

Finally, you decide to break the silence, whilst keeping the gaze intact. “What do you want.” You say it like a statement, rather than a question, a cold briefness to your tone.

His eyes narrow and suddenly grow colder. He shrugs offhandedly, letting his eyelids blink slowly over his now less-intrusive gaze.

“Trying to figure me out or something?” you ask icily. “I thought you’d had all that taken care of before you kidnapped me. Or are you finding new stuff, adding more to what you know, so you can keep manipulating me?” You don’t know what you’re doing, why you’re saying this, but you can’t control it. And strangely, the more you speak, the more you notice what seems to be a slight smile playing across his features, partially obscured by his fist. The smile makes you uneasy.

“Something like that,” he mutters offhandedly. Okay. Now you’re getting nervous. His gaze has intensified again; you don’t know what to expect from him, his intentions are still unclear. But you keep your eyes locked with his, and he does the same with you, his intense stare drilling into you. His eyes have a peculiar, almost mischievous gleam to them. Trying to read further into his motives, you narrow your own eyes, and tilt your head the slightest bit. But you don’t see anything. He seems to have a way of blocking off his thoughts, guarding them from others’ prying eyes. Either that, or he doesn’t even have a plan, he’s just making it all up as he goes along, and has no thoughts to hide. Or perhaps it’s some of both.

After another silent minute passes, he sits up, dropping his hand from his face, and he stands up, his features resuming their former, disinterested expression as he takes a moment to straighten his suit. He turns and starts walking towards the stairs, but as his foot lands on the first step, you make yourself known once again.

“Wait.” He stops, head tilting up barely, and you see his eyes light up, though his expression remains the same. His face is still slightly downturned towards the stairs ahead of him. You don’t go on from there. You hadn’t thought of something else to say, and quite frankly, you don’t know why you even stopped him.

“…Yes?” he implores, keeping his indifferent gaze fixated on the steps.

“Uh…” you stutter. “What did you want?”

He turns his head to look at you, the calm, neutral expression replaced with something like curiosity. “I was observing you,” he says offhandedly. “I find you intriguing. Different than most who I’ve come across before.”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“There’s just more to you, I suppose,” he shrugs. “More complexity. It’s not as easy to read into you as it is others.”

He continues ascending the stairs, and again you feel the urge to stop him. “Wait – please,” you say again, sounding almost desperate, to your own surprise, and apparently to his as well, because he stops, and turns to face you directly, hands gripping the banister. He seems impatient. “I want you to explain it to me,” you request. “Tell me… what you see in me. What’s different.”

The corners of his mouth tilt upward. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he mutters, but turns and goes down the stairs and takes a seat in the chair again, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap. “I think we both know you’d be better off not knowing,” he muses. “No point in trying to play clever, or trying to form new judgments based on how much I know,” he says.

You stop yourself just as you’re about to object. He has a point, and at this point it really wouldn’t help you to question him. You don’t know for certain that he _does_ know everything about you, or if the things he knows are true, but now that you think about it you’re not sure you would want to risk finding out. Perhaps just assuming he knows… _everything_ … would be the safest way to go for now.

You hesitantly nod in agreement, and he grins, clearly pleased with your ability to catch on.

You still don’t know what to say to him, so you just continue to look at him curiously, suddenly taking interest in his features. He notices this immediately, but doesn’t shift in the slightest, despite being completely aware he’s being watched closely, by prying eyes that he’s typically keen on avoiding. So why isn’t he trying to avoid this?

But he soon stands up, smoothing out his suit. “Well, if that’s all you wanted, then I’ll be going.”

“Actually,” you start, before he turns away, biting your lip with uncertainty. “Could you… come over here?” you ask softly, hoping the request isn’t too excessive.

He looks at you with a peculiar expression. “What, exactly, is it that you want with me?” he asks with a degree of curiosity.

“I just,” you stammer, “look, I’m not going to hurt you, I swear, I just… was wondering if you could come here.” You’re blushing, embarrassed with yourself for seeming so nervous and unsure.

He immediately laughs at your response, and for a moment, you’re afraid he might just leave. “I’m not so daft as to think you’d make that foolish of a decision again,” he grins as he approaches you, and, to your surprise, he sits down against the wall at your side, unbuttoning his jacket as he does so.

His knees are bent slightly, with his feet flat against the floor, and his hands clasped together, forearms rested against his knees. He doesn’t turn his head to look at you, but rather stares at his hands, still looking somewhat amused at your words and your flustered behavior.

“…Well? You wanted me to come over here, what exactly was your plan?” he asks calmly.

But you’re too preoccupied to answer him. Instead, you’re studying him, similar to the way he’d been observing you before. You take in every detail about him, searching for secrets about his inner self based on external features, but it’s practically impossible. Not to mention the fact that you keep getting distracted, noticing how… _nicely_ his physical characteristics piece together. The appealing contrast of the wide, dark-brown eyes, pale skin and dark, near-black hair, for one. And then the soft features – lips and nose, dark and elegantly shaped eyebrows, and cheekbones not too strikingly sharp, but still prominent, all contributing to his quite – no, no, you don’t actually find him… oh, but really, you do – his quite _attractive_ appearance in general. Then there’s his build, of course – not especially tall, though just the slightest bit ahead of you in height, and slender form, accentuated perfectly by the suit – God, he must pay a fortune to get so many that are so perfectly fitted and look so damn _good_ on him… And then, of course, though it’s not evident while he’s wearing the suit, you’re perfectly aware of his arms which may not at first seem very strong but are in fact quite muscular and toned; you’d learned that the hard way.

Of course, you take all of this in within a matter of seconds, and by the time you’ve reached this point, he’s gotten a bit impatient. With an exaggerated eye roll, he turns his head to face you, just about to voice his mild annoyance. But something – God knows what, because you sure as hell don’t – _something_ impels you to take his face in your hands and pull him towards you for a kiss, holding him firmly in place once your lips are pressed together.

His initial reaction is shock. Of all things, he was not expecting this. But, being Jim Moriarty, this sense of being caught off-guard lasts for the smallest fraction of a second, and he soon adjusts and adapts, as he seems to with every situation he meets. He casually, almost naturally, places his hands gently on your waist, kissing you back with intensity, now catching _you_ by surprise.

And _God_ , is he good. It isn’t long before he brings his tongue into the kiss, and yours soon joins in, as well. Something about the kiss is very gentle and soft, yet there’s something much darker and bolder behind that façade. His grip on your waist tightens, and you hum with pleasure as he practically takes ownership over your mouth, dominating you solely with those soft lips and tongue, as well as the occasional little bite of your bottom lip.

Without thinking, you slide your hands down from the sides of his face, to his neck, let them drift absentmindedly down his chest – and, of course, the feeling of the firm, toned torso beneath his clothes doesn’t go unnoticed either – and you just feel so fucking charged up right now, like there’s electricity pulsing through your veins, and the kissing becomes rougher, more possessive, especially on his part. Before you know it, your hands have reached the crotch of his trousers, and you’re grasping his thick, growing erection through the layers of fabric, forcing a breathy moan past his lips and onto yours.

The sound is arousing as hell – yet again, you’re not actually thinking right now, just cherishing the first sense of pleasure and sexual gratification that you’ve felt in what’s now been months – because even before you’d been kidnapped, it had been a while – and suddenly you’ve got nothing on your mind but sex, and how you want – no, _need_ it, now.

As he continues to kiss you, he grabs your face, at first pressing his lips harder against yours, but then he pulls away. He stares at you with wide, ravenous eyes, and looks as though he’s getting ready to devour you, glancing over your features and trying to pick which spot to attack with his teeth and lips next – your neck seems particularly interesting to him.

You lean towards him again, hoping to initiate more physical contact, but he turns his head away, his jaw clenched, and grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from where they’d been massaging his hardening cock. He rises to his feet, leaving you feeling empty and desperate for more, because you only got the slightest taste of what he has to offer. After taking a moment to straighten his suit, but making no obvious effort to conceal the prominent bulge in his trousers, he turns away from you, and leaves, returning upstairs without a word. Above, you hear his feet pair up with Sebastian’s, and hear him talking to Seb quickly, as if inquiring something of him. Footsteps, both pairs together, walking into another room, some shuffling noises, then nothing.

But then you hear Jim again, speaking fairly softly, and… moaning. Speaking quietly to Seb. “Ohhhh, Sebastian…” you hear the muffled groan from upstairs, figuring out to your surprise what the two of them are doing up there. And there it is again; the sound of his voice, so soft and weak with pleasure, turns you on even more. You slide one hand down, beneath your panties, and start pleasuring yourself. Still feeling horribly sex-deprived, with a desperate thirst for more stimulation, you end up taking your trousers off entirely, and your shirt and bra, too, overwhelmed with lust that you had been so deprived of.

Rubbing your clit with one hand, and clutching your breasts with the other, you listen to the scene above. The moaning is hardly audible at first, but gradually grows in volume, with the occasional lewd grunt, and you picture Jim bucking his hips up to force his length further down Seb’s throat. You can tell when Jim is nearing his climax, as the breaks between the moans grow closer together, and his voice climbs both in volume and pitch. You start rubbing yourself faster, keeping yourself silent so you can hear him above. You close your eyes and picture it, Jim sprawled out over a chair or couch, still fully-clothed (though, for the sake of your imagination, you prefer to picture him stark naked), Seb kneeling between his legs, taking Jim’s full hard length into his mouth while Jim arches his back and cries out in pleasure. You try to imagine exactly what it looks like, perhaps with one of Jim’s hands reaching back to hold on to the back of the chair while the other is gripping the back of Seb’s head, roughly forcing Seb to take more and more of his shaft with each thrust. And perhaps Seb pulls away for a moment, then grips Jim’s balls with one hand and the base of his cock with the other, and he runs his tongue up along the underside of Jim’s length, flicking his tongue rapidly once he reaches the head and eliciting another forceful groan from Jim’s lips.

You feel yourself nearing your peak, waiting until just the right moment to reach it. You take yourself over the edge just as you hear him orgasm above you, hearing his obscene moaning and panting just as the pleasure spreads through you. You try to picture his face contorting with pleasure, the expression of weakness and vulnerability which usually comes with the climax – lips parted, eyes closed, with his head tilted back, spine arching. And perhaps his hand is knotted in Seb’s hair, forcing his head down as he bucks his hips upward into him, then holds him there, his thick release shooting into Seb’s throat… And God, that image is so fucking beautiful.

You’d never considered that Sebastian was more to Jim than just a sniper.

And something deep within you hopes that you can be more to Jim than just a prisoner.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, well this chapter is a bit... mature, to say the least... so don't say I didn't warn you. Enjoy :)

You wake up the next day, and as soon as you recall the events of the night before, feel shocked and disgusted with yourself, ashamed at the fact that you’d gotten off from listening to your captor getting sucked off. He doesn’t come down that day. Nobody does.

_____________

In the days that follow, only Sebastian comes down, and the two of you rarely exchange more than a few words. You notice, however, that you’re being brought more clothes than usual, enough for a fresh outfit every day, and the clothes are nicer, more comfortable. And there’s more food variety as well. Based on what you hear from upstairs, it sounds as though Jim is the one who cooks the food, which is now more real meals rather than just soup, and Seb just brings it down. The food is good, and Jim seems to be able to put it together quickly. Perhaps he has a lot of experience with it, maybe from cooking for Seb and himself.

A few days after the incident, Seb is sent down with a key, and you watch in surprise as he unlocks the cuffs binding your ankles. You stare in awe at your body, with all four of your limbs free from bondage. Your ankles aren’t as torn up as your wrists were, as you’ve been given socks from one of the first days there, which have provided some protection.

Sitting on the floor with your legs extended in front of you, you look up at Seb with wide eyes as he sets the cuffs on the table.

“Wh- wait, why… What?” you stutter incomprehensibly.

Seb glances at you, one corner of his mouth quirking up slightly at your reaction, and he shrugs. “We’re, uh… not exactly… letting you go. But you’ll be able to go around the flat, instead of being stuck down here all the time.”

"But… how?”

Seb looks away. “Jim, actually, is the one who suggested it. I’d been thinking about mentioning something to him… because I know it can be hard to live like you were living. Trust me, I’ve been through it before, several times. In fact, when Jim first came across me, he put me through something not much different from this, as a sort of preparation or something, and he-” Seb stops suddenly, the faint smile that was on his lips fading, the color draining from his face, and he bites his lip. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. His eyes close and he leans his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God, Jim…”

Confused, you look up at him. He obviously just realized something, something bad. Was it pertaining to you? He was saying he’d gone through this before with Jim when… _Oh my God_ , you thought, adopting a stunned expression. “Y-you mean, all this, here, is because…” your mouth feels dry and tension fills your chest, “because I’m being… recruited?”

Seb turns to you with a wary expression, not saying anything, but in his silence confirming the answer to your question.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper.

_____________

You can’t figure out exactly what it is, but you feel as though you’ve become strangely attached to your domain in the basement. And you’re too afraid to go upstairs and possibly face Moriarty. So you spend the first few days of your “freedom” in the exact place you’d been freed from. Seb catches on quickly, and continues bringing meals down to you.

One night, when you’re feeling particularly lonely, you allow your mind to wander, immediately shifting back to the one night when Jim sat beside you, and… _Oh, God_. You’re hit with a sudden realization that you actually _miss_ him, miss his touch, the press of his cool hands against your skin, the sensation of his lips against yours. You long for his hands to be all over you again, to press your bare torso against his, without any clothes in the way.

When Seb brings down your dinner that night, he seems uneasy, so you ask if something’s wrong.

“He’s been talking to me about coming down here again, changing things back to how they were, with him bringing you your food while I get work done, because I’ve been falling behind lately.” His fingers tap anxiously against his knee. “But he won’t make you put on any restraints again. Still, I can’t say what he’s planning for you, he still hasn’t even mentioned the subject. I could’ve been wrong before, just because he did the same thing with me when I first joined him doesn’t mean he has the same plans for you.”

You listen to his rushed words in silence, while pondering over your own thoughts. “But if it turns out that’s not his plan, then what about the alternatives? Would those be any better?” You sigh. “Listen, if you’re right, if that’s what he’s doing, preparing me to work for him, then maybe that’s the best option I have. I doubt he’d even consider just letting me loose, returning me to my normal life. If he didn’t want to keep me, he’d kill me, and he doesn’t seem to want to do that. Not yet, at least.” The last part you say softly, under your breath so Seb can’t hear you. “Really, Seb, you don’t have to worry about me, I know how to defend myself if there’s any trouble. Thank you for your concern, I really do appreciate it.”

He looks at you with apprehensive eyes, but doesn’t object. After he leaves, you let the suppressed excitement rush into your chest. _I’ll finally get to see him again,_ you tell yourself hopefully. Perhaps you’d be able to get some more physical contact, as your body aches for human touch, possibly a result of the isolation for what’s now been over a month, but also because Jim’s actions the other night had reminded you just how _great_ it felt. And he made it more than obvious that he knows what he’s doing when it comes to physical situations like that.

Hesitation creeps into your thoughts as you consider the fact that, if he does come down, he might want nothing to do with touching you again. Rather than pushing the thought from your mind, you start devising a plan. And then common sense shoves its way into your thoughts. This man is a criminal – a very attractive one, yes, but he abducted you, for God’s sake! And here you are, sitting in the basement of said criminal’s domain, trying to map out ways to get him to have sex with you.

You clutch your head, groaning at the thought of how screwed up this imprisonment has made your thoughts, warping your ideas of what’s right and wrong. But a more primitive part of you pipes up, reminding you that, at this point, right and wrong won’t do you any good, so you might as well enjoy the simpler pleasures that are available. The fact that touching Jim… and being touched by him in return, elicited a brief peace of mind, a break from the misery you’ve been trapped in for weeks, makes you even more determined to put a concrete plan into effect.

So. Back to the what-if’s. The chance that Jim won’t want to do this – but wouldn’t that be rape? No, no, it’s more complex than that… God, where are your morals right now? No, if he really resists, you’ll stop… But something tells you he’s not likely to refuse, especially given the vigor with which he was kissing you before… You groan again, exasperated at yourself for getting distracted, and you force yourself to look beyond all of those other details, to the displeasure of your more sensible side, and instead start to prepare for the plan you have in mind. You take one of the clean black shirts that Seb brought down for you, and start tearing it, until you have three long, narrow strips of fabric.

You glance at the chair for a second, with a mischievous grin spreading across your features. And rolled up with some of your clothes is the pair of cuffs that were around your ankles, which Seb had mistakenly left on the table, having forgotten about them while you’d been speaking to him.

Those would be perfect.

_____________

The next night, to your disappointment, Seb comes down the stairs with your food. But he still looks anxious.

“He’s coming down within the next few hours,” he informs you.

You nod, thanking him for letting you know, while struggling to keep your voice steady; you don’t want to give away your excited anticipation.

Two hours later, at 11:26, you hear a hand grip the door handle and slowly push the door open. Slow footsteps tap rhythmically down the steps, and you watch with pleasure – which you conceal from him – as Jim’s slender figure comes into full view. A black suit today, with a similarly dark shirt and tie. As he always does, he looks quite attractive and put-together in a rather intimidating way, his stance relaxed, but still expressing a sense of power. He moves so smoothly, with such ease, but in a reptilian sort of way, elegant yet cold. Both hands are empty, as Seb had brought your food down earlier. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs and turns slightly away to go over to the chair, you slip your hand into the pile of clothing next to you and pull out the handcuffs, slipping the key into your pocket, before silently rising to your feet and rushing up to him from behind.

You immediately go for his arms, pulling them back so they’re behind his back, and you lock the cuffs into place. He resists at first, making it difficult for you to stay behind him and successfully tie one strip of cloth over his eyes. You swiftly pull the chair closer to the center of the room and push him down into it. You’re surprised at the ease with which you’re able to do all of this, tying his ankles to each of the front legs of the chair. It shouldn’t be this easy, unless he’s simply letting you do this to him. Which is _good_ … right?

Once secured in his seat, Jim makes no attempts to free himself from his bindings. He seems to catch on quickly, and one corner of his mouth turns up the slightest bit.

So he _does_ want this, then.

Good.

You quickly, silently slip out of your clothes, leaving yourself completely naked, and look over at Jim. He’s sitting still, with that patient yet seductive half-smile on his face. You stride over to him with a satisfied grin, resting your hands on his shoulders for a second as you pass behind, letting one bare leg brush against his bound hands. Going around to the front of the chair, you straddle yourself on his lap, your face just inches from his. You hook your legs around the back legs of the chair, pulling your body closer to his. You grab the sides of his face and just look at him, taking in each detail of his features, before leaning your head in and starting to kiss him.

He complies. “So,” he says softly between kisses, “are we continuing where we left off last week?” His voice sounds calm and low, his lips brushing gently against yours as he speaks.

“Not quite,” you answer him at the same volume. “It seems that Seb finished that off for you.” You smile at the memory of Jim’s aroused moans carrying themselves down to the basement. “This is something new.”

As you kiss him, you grind your hips against his. He does a good job of restraining himself, but lets out the occasional strangled moan, pulling slightly at the handcuffs.

“Be patient,” you hum to him, cherishing the signs of his desire surfacing. Beneath you, you can feel him starting to grow hard. You stand up and shift yourself off him, now kneeling between his legs. You unzip his trousers and reach your hand into them, grabbing his long, hard shaft in one hand and pulling it out.

You start stroking his cock slowly, admiring its length. On either side of you, you feel the muscles in his legs grow tense, and you can tell he’s getting impatient. With a brief glance upward, you see that his head is tilted back slightly, lips parted with a heavy sigh escaping them. Seeing him like this, looking so desperate yet unable to move, turns you on even more. You start kissing the head of his cock lightly, sliding one hand down to your clit and starting to rub it.

The low, heavy moan that Jim lets out when you push just his head into your mouth sends chills down your spine. You slowly take more of him into your mouth, rubbing his balls with one hand and yourself with the other, until your lips are at his base, and his cock is pulsing halfway down your throat. You hold him there, unable to breathe with him filling you like this, just long enough to hear him let out another moan as his cock grows harder in your throat.

You pull him out of yourself most of the way and pump him a few more times in your mouth, just part of the way in. After a minute, you pull your head away, pulling your hair back from your face, and tug at the ties around his ankles, loosening them, then letting them fall to the floor. Your feet pad softly against the cold concrete as you make your way to where you left your clothes. You crouch down and fish the small key out of the trousers, then walk back to Jim slowly.

His cock stands at attention, shining slightly from the remnants of your saliva, mixed with his precum. He has extended his legs now, keeping them spread widely. You slowly step over him and sit so that the underside of his cock is pressed against your slit. You can feel the blood pulsing through it as you rut against it, resting the hand clutching the key on his shoulder, and the other on his leg behind you. You lean you head back, closing your eyes as Jim’s twitching length stimulates your clit and your lips. His cock is pressed up against his stomach, and you glance down to watch more precum oozing thickly from the head.

“Ohhhhh my God,” you moan, speeding up your pace against him as you drape your body over his and reach behind him to unlock his handcuffs. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, and his breath on your neck as he turns his head to kiss behind your ear. As soon as his hands are free, he tears off his blindfold and looks into your eyes with a seductive, desire-charged gaze.

His cool hands grip your ass as you grind against him, before sliding up your waist to your breasts, which he rubs slowly, his thumbs circling around your nipples. He brings his lips to one of them, sucking on it and biting it gently, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on your face, sending tremors of pleasure through your chest. You push him away for a second to start pulling his jacket off his shoulders. You step off him so he can stand up and let you undress him.

He can’t keep his hands off you as you loosen his tie and drop it to the floor, then unbutton his shirt. His hands graze down over your waist, your hips, your ass, then up your back, caressing you. When you manage to push his hands away long enough to take his shirt off him, you inhale sharply as his warm, toned torso presses up against yours. He kisses you before letting you pull his trousers and pants off him.

The two of you embrace, his cock pressing up against you, his strong arms holding you firmly against him. Your lips meet, parting and letting your tongues through. He brings his lips down to your jawline, then trails them down your neck, over your chest and your belly, until he’s on his knees, sucking on your clit.

“Oh fuck, wait,” you whimper, stepping back. You have him lie down on the floor, then rest a knee on either side of his head, before leaning forward to grab his cock again. He immediately grabs your ass and starts flicking his tongue over your clit, sucking at it intensely and greedily. He slides two fingers slowly into your tight wet slit, then adds another, stretching your hole. You feel yourself shaking with pleasure and start pumping his cock quickly with one hand before slowly lowering your head over it, taking in just the head, pulling it out, taunting him. Then you do it again, just a little further, then lift your head. He pulls his face from your cunt for a second.

“Fuck, just suck me,” he groans, and you smile. Dropping your lips onto the head, slowly pushing further and further down, you start deepthroating him, quickly pumping his entire length into your mouth and throat repeatedly, tasting his precum and feeling it trail down your throat. Finally, you push your head all the way down again, and hold it there, trying to stay down for as long as you can, moaning around it. It suffocates you, but Jim starts humming with pleasure, his lips and tongue still busy against you. Your chest begs for air as he takes you closer and closer to your climax, and you pull him out of your mouth, gasping desperately for air, then pushing yourself up slightly as you cry out, arching your back as the sensual pleasure sends shocks through your whole body.

You climb off him, rolling onto your back at his side, astonished to see the criminal’s cock still standing tall. As the effects of your orgasm fade away, you feel yourself becoming desperate for more. While you catch your breath, Jim grabs his cock in one hand, stroking it slowly, with his other hand resting behind his head. His eyes switch from his cock over to you. “We’re not done already, are we?” he smirks, and stands up. You sit up, and he takes your hands to pull you onto your feet. “C’mon, I want to take you somewhere a little more comfortable than this.” He lifts you with his left arm at your back, and your knees over his right arm. You wrap your arms around his neck and start kissing him again, roughly. He pulls away so he can watch his step as he carries you up the stairs to the first floor, then up another flight to the second floor, where he sets you down onto your feet.

“If you’d like, we can use my bed, and…” he starts. But you’re paying attention to another room, the bathroom.

“How about the shower?” you interrupt, averting your eyes from the room to his face.

His eyes light up at your suggestion, and the sly smile that his mouth curls into answers your question. He kisses you roughly while pushing you back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and pressing you up against a wall. He pins your hands above your head with one hand, kissing you, then rubbing his head against your clit, making it even more wet with his precum. He pulls you into the shower, releasing your wrists, and moving the other hand from his cock to your side. He reaches behind himself to turn on the water, and it starts streaming over the two of you.

“Oh _shit_ ,” you hiss, pulling away from him. The water feels like ice against your skin.

“Fuck,” Jim mutters, turning around and adjusting the knob to warm up the water. He turns back around and blushes. “Sorry about that.”

You laugh, sighing in relief as the cold is soon replaced by warm, then hot water. You press your heads together, desire-filled gazes locking with each other.

“Tell me what you want,” he purrs. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Fuck me,” you demand.

He raises a thin, dark eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

“Fuck me hard, I want you to shove your long, hard cock into me and make me _scream_.”

He smiles. “That’s what I like to hear.” He looks down, grabbing his cock with one hand, and guides it to your cunt, rubbing just the head over your slit. You grab his shoulders tightly.

“ _Fuck_ , Jim, please just fuck me already,” you pant, growing desperate for his penetration. He looks back up at you with taunting eyes, pushing only the head into your hole. You throw your head back and moan, as he slowly pushes himself deeper into you, the warm water of the shower streaming down over both of your bodies.

“I want to hear you scream my name when you come,” he murmurs, holding your body against his. “Understand?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp. Your nails dig into his back as you feel the thickness and length of his cock stretching you out. It hurts some at first, but once he’s all the way in, you feel his head lightly tap that one spot that turns all the pain into paralyzing pleasure. Jim pulls out of you slowly, then pushes back in, harder than before, forcing his throbbing head against your g-spot, and repeatedly thrusting into you, faster and harder each time.

“Oh God, don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop,” you beg over the sound of his loudening moans. You feel him forcing you closer and closer to your climax again, and the moment before you reach it, he pulls out quickly, leaving you empty and unsatisfied. But he’s not done. He turns you around so you’re facing away from him, grabs your hips, then guides himself into your cunt from behind, picking up where he left off. Your back is arched sharply and you reach your arms back behind you to grab his head. He pushes your hair over one of your shoulders, then kisses the nape of your neck, up along your spine, then to the side, where your jaw ends just below your ear. He brings his arms around to your front, keeping you steady with one across your chest, and sliding the other hand to your cunt, rubbing it rapidly, his fingers giving the perfect amount of pressure and movement to give you the most pleasure.

“Now I want you to fucking come for me,” he grunts, thrusting harder into you and forcing a scream past your lips. “That’s right, I want you to scream.”

He increases his speed, somehow managing to go deeper into you with each rough thrust, while his fingers circle faster around your cunt. The combination of his hard cock fucking you and his hand rubbing your clit makes your climax slam into you, hard. And you scream. “Ohhhh _yes, Jim oh my God, oh fuck, ohhh yesss,”_ you cry, your body arching further back, your toes curling against the floor of the shower, your knees going weak.

He takes his hand away from your cunt and grabs your other hips, thrusting faster and harder into you, and you plant your hands on the wall for support.

“Come inside of me, Jim, oh I want to feel it fill me, I want to feel it dripping down my legs,” you say breathlessly, lightheaded in your post-orgasmic bliss.

“Oh, fuck, so fucking good, ohhhh.” Jim snaps his hips forward, pushing himself all the way into you and holding himself there. With a final strangled moan, you feel his warm cum fill you, his cock twitching as he orgasms, thick release shooting into you, his breathing heavy, panting, half-moaning.

He slowly pulls out his flaccid cock after a few more seconds, then leans back against the wall as he slides down into a sitting position, still out of breath. You sit down next to him, his ejaculate dripping from your cunt, and you lean your head against his right shoulder, and rest your hand on his smooth, pale chest. The toned muscles of his torso rise and fall with each breath, something you find almost hypnotic. You feel so comfortable, so content, just so fucking good in general, and it seems like he feels the same way.

The warm water of the shower feels nice washing over you, leaving you feeling clean and smooth. Jim doesn’t even make any attempt to turn it off. His eyes are still closed, and he’s breathing deeply with parted lips. You close your eyes, still leaning against his shoulder, and drift off to the feeling of his arm lifting up and around over your shoulders.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no smut in this one, just some more plot. Hope it's not too slow or boring, I had to change it A LOT from how this chapter originally went, cuz it was getting a bit unrealistic (in terms of the characters and their personalities). I'm getting a little more busy with school, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to update as frequently, but I'll do my best! Thanks for all the comments so far, everyone, I really appreciate it!

You’re jolted awake to the feeling of Jim shifting next to you, and the water abruptly stopping above you. You open your eyes groggily, seeing with surprise that the door to the bathroom is open, with someone standing silhouetted against the light behind it. It’s Seb. He’s looking a bit surprised, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows raised, glancing from you to Jim.

You panic, immediately covering your breasts with your arms, and pulling your knees closer to your chest, locking your ankles together to cover yourself. Next to you, Jim stands up and, grabbing a towel, wraps himself tightly around the hips. He gives Moran a look that seems to be telling him to move on. Moran, in response, nods curtly, turns, and walks away as Jim shuts the door.

He turns back towards you, running a hand through his dark wet hair. “Sorry about that,” he grins. “Think we caught him a bit off-guard, huh?” You stare at him, still recovering from your own discomfiture at being seen. “No need to feel embarrassed, [y/n], it’s not like he’s never seen a naked woman before,” he chuckles.

“I’m sorry,” you blush; you can’t help it, you feel responsible for what happened, and you really wish it hadn’t happened at all.

You feel his hand beneath your chin, tilting your head up. He’s crouched in front of you, his eyes at the same level as yours. “Don’t apologize. Sebastian is fine, he just wasn’t expecting to find you like this – or me, for that matter.”

Your brow furrows, suddenly feeling confused about the whole situation. “You mean, Seb won’t be… upset or anything? After seeing you with me? Because I understand that there’s stuff going on between you…” you trail off, biting your lip with uncertainty.

“Oh. _That_ ,” Jim chuckles softly, and his eyes darken peculiarly, and you sense just the outer shell of desire that he is keeping mostly concealed. “I wouldn’t get caught up in that, if I were you. ‘Bastian and I, we just have… certain ways of expressing our respect to each other, or letting off some of the stress from a hard day of work. Or sometimes we just like some cheap pleasure, nothing romantic about it in the least.” His grin is dark and mischievous. You can’t even begin to wonder what he’s picturing behind those near-black eyes. But after a moment, he shrugs it off, and the dark grin is replaced with his relaxed expression. “That’s a story for another time, perhaps. And if Sebastian does get upset about this, well that’s the thing with him – he tends to get a bit too sentimental now and then. He’s the kind who grows attached. You could call it a fault of his.”

“What makes it a fault?”

“It only serves to weaken him. It makes him vulnerable, even if it’s only when he’s with me. It seems to be a problem that a lot of you more ordinary people tend to struggle with. And perhaps his finding me like this makes him fear he’ll be replaced – which is completely illogical, of course. I value Sebastian greatly – for a variety of reasons. I couldn’t afford to lose him. He’s far too useful for that.”

You want to ask him more about it, feeling somewhat offended by the “you more ordinary people” comment, but you decide to drop it instead, not wanting to push it too much. He helps you to your feet, handing you a towel to wrap around your torso.

“Here, follow me,” he says softly. “We can go get our things from the basement and then I’ll show you where you’ll be spending your nights now.”

“Wait,” you interject, stopping in your tracks. “What do you m – oh, really, it’s alright, I don’t need a—”

He cuts you off. “No, it’s time you started sleeping in an actual bed for once, instead of just on that cold concrete – oh, and don’t worry, it’s not my bed I’m offering you; you’ll have a room of your own to sleep in.”

You thank him, flattered by his offer, and grateful as well, thinking of the idea of sleeping in a bed for once. It shocks you that you’ve gotten to the point where the thought of having a bed to sleep in feels like a gift you hardly even deserve. You’re relieved that he’s granting you solitude – he may be a great fuck, but having to sleep with him in the same bed every night (or at least the ones when he’s home) is a whole other story.

The two of you return to the basement and put on your clothes again, then head back to the second floor. Jim leads you into a bedroom next to Seb’s, with his own directly across from Seb’s. It’s a nice room, the walls painted light grey, the floor dark brown hardwood, a queen-sized bed with simple grey covers a shade or two darker than the walls. There’s a window in the wall opposite to the door, with its white curtains drawn, a small closet with just hangers in it, a dresser with a mirror on the wall above it, a chair at a small writing desk, and a small round bedside table. It’s all very comfortable, but nothing overdone. Simple, relaxed.

“Well, I’ll let you get settled in, then,” Jim says. “You can go around the house as you please, food’s downstairs, in the kitchen. Let me know if there’s anything else you’ll be needing.” With that, he walks out and closes the door behind him. You stay standing, scanning over the room, memorizing every detail. _So this is my new home, now_ , you tell yourself. Better get used to it. Because you probably won’t be leaving any time soon. That thought alone makes your throat and eyes burn, so you force it to the back of your mind and step forth, setting down your small pile of other clothes from downstairs, onto the bedspread. You walk over to the writing desk, which sits in the corner of the room, pull out the chair, dragging it in front of the glass, and just gaze out. Over the past month, you’d seen so little natural light, nothing other than the little that filtered into the dreadful dark basement, for so long, that you’d almost forgotten that London was just outside of these wretched walls.

What feels even stranger is that nothing has changed in that time. Not even the colors of the leaves.

But here you are, stuck in an entirely new life, a prisoner, now being treated like a welcome guest, a passing visitor stopping at Hotel California. Is this it? Is this how you’ll live the rest of your life? If you try to escape, and manage to do so successfully, you’ll have nothing – and no one – to return to. You have no family to reach out to; you’d cut yourself off from them years before and haven’t heard from them since. You didn’t even have a job or a boyfriend when Jim came along. You had nothing. You had a trashy flat with shitty neighbors who you put an effort into avoiding, even going so far as making sure they never knew whether or not you were home. Maybe the landlord will notice that you’ve stopped paying rent – but chances are, that wouldn’t save you from where you’ve ended up.

You’re completely on your own now. Just you and the mid-September breeze, blowing time along all too quickly, yet never fast enough. You’ve already lost so much time here, but how much longer will you have to wait before you can start living your life again, if ever?

The pink-orange glow of dawn expands slowly from the horizon as the day nears sunrise. You decide to go get the few clothes you have hung up or put away in the drawer, but as soon as you stand up, you hear footsteps in the hall, and the sound of knocking against a door.

Not your door, but Sebastian’s. You walk over to the foot of your bed and sit on the edge, staring at the wall through which is Seb’s room.

“What,” you hear his voice say stoically. You hear the door open, and another person – Jim, obviously – takes a few steps into the room. “What do you want?” Seb asks darkly.

“To apologize.”

Seb scoffs. “For what?”

“You know what.”

“Okay.”

“…Well?”

Silence, probably Seb just shrugging it off.

“Sebastian, come on. I just thought I might say something. Consider it a favor. But if you want, I can just drop the subject completely and we can let it go…” Jim is using that voice, the one that really isn’t giving Seb a choice, he’s merely dangling bait in front of him, waiting for something to catch. Which, as always, works.

Seb sighs. “At least tell me it was her idea, and not yours.”

“Of course it was her idea,” Jim retorts, taken aback. “I’d hardly gotten down the stairs when she decided to take matters into her own hands, and before I knew it, she had me cuffed, blindfolded, and tied to the chair.”

A disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

“Alright, well perhaps I let her do it, I didn’t put up a fight, but trust me, it was all her doing.”

“And now she’s living up here?”

“She was going to have to come up sooner or later. I figured it might be good to bring her up on a positive note.”

“So you brought her up in the middle of your little sexual excursion.”

“Something wrong with that?”

Seb chuckles, but after a moment, the sound stops.

“What?” Jim asks.

“Jim – please tell me you used a condom.”

A pause. “Sebastian –”

“Oh, for the love of –”

“ _Sebastian._ ”

“Are you _trying_ to get her pregnant? Honestly, you must be absolutely –”

“Perhaps there was no use for one,” Jim interrupts in a clipped manner.

No response at first. Then, “What do you mean?”

This time, it’s Jim’s turn to sigh. “Well, it just so happens, that I know [y/n]’s medical history, and she made a decision, a rather permanent one…”

“You mean she – so she had an operation?”

“A few years ago, yes. So no, Sebastian, I didn’t use a condom; we both know I’m clean, I know she’s clean, and reproduction is not an issue we need to worry about.”

For a moment, there’s just silence. You imagine that Seb is taking it all in, processing everything Jim’s told him, coming to terms with it all.

“You still don’t approve of it, do you?” Jim asks, apparently observing unease in the other.

“I just – I don’t know. It still seems strange to me. You abducted her, you’ve beaten her, starved her, and now you two are fucking?”

“I told you, it was her idea, not mine.”

“But you had no objections to it.”

“Should I have any?”

“Well I don’t know, Jim, I just thought –”

“Just give it a rest, Moran.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m telling you to, and I don’t think you’re in any position to be going against my orders.” Jim has adopted a more aggressive, authoritative tone. “Have I made myself clear?”

Silence.

“ _Answer_ me, Moran.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Good. Then I’ll be going.” You listen as his distinct footsteps – feet now clad in his normal dress shoes – but he soon stops, as if remembering something he wanted to say. “Just… one last thing.”

“Hm?”

The shuffling of feet, perhaps Jim turning around to face Seb again.

“Why her?” Jim insists. “I’ve brought plenty of women here before, some just for me, some we’ve shared. You never objected to any of that. So why, when this one comes in, and you find her with me like that, _why_ are you letting it get to you? Haven’t I trained you to do otherwise?”

Silence.

“Oh, _I_ see,” Jim murmurs. “You like her, don’t you.”

“Or perhaps I just think she deserves better than this. She’s obviously different from the other women you’ve brought here. She’s not a prostitute.”

“I do believe they call themselves ‘escorts’ nowadays.”

“That’s not the point. She deserves better than what you’re giving her.”

“Better than me?” he laughs, “because I think she was really enjoying it…”

“Not the damn sex, Jim!” Seb raises his voice. “Not this little… ‘relationship’ between you two, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Sebastian, I assure you, this has nothing to do with an actual relationship, or any sort of connection or bonding. She wanted to, so I let her. And anyway,” his voice drops in volume and pitch, coming across as much more seductive, “you know I still _want_ you…” Slow footsteps approach Seb, you picture Jim wearing his classic smirk, eyes promising so many sinful things.

“Not now, Jim,” Seb mutters. “It’s not about that.”

The footsteps halt. “ _Oh_ ,” Jim hums, finally understanding. “This has more to do with… an old companion of yours, doesn’t it? C-”

“Don’t,” Seb growls, “don’t say her name.”

You sense a change in the atmosphere, even from the other side of the wall. Jim’s tone is gentle, genuine. “I’m sorry.” A pause, a few steps as Jim heads back towards the door. “I did everything I could.”

“Just go.”

Without another word, Jim exits the room and closes the door behind himself. You hear his steps in the hallway, and you freeze, holding your breath as they stop just outside of your room. But after another moment, he continues on, going down the stairs and, shortly after, out the front door.

Who was this person they were talking about? A woman, obviously, but who? She must’ve held some significance to Sebastian, or he wouldn’t have been so affected by Jim mentioning her. You shake your head, realizing you have no way of knowing; perhaps you would ask Jim about it later.

And now, you’re alone with your thoughts, no conversations to eavesdrop on, nothing to distract you from your reality. Your mind is finally catching up to the rest of you, and it has quite a lot to say about everything that has happened.

The man who has just walked out of the house is a criminal. A really insane, psychopathic, murderous criminal. And last night, you _actually_ had sex with him – no, you _initiated_ sex with him. Now, granted, the sex was absolutely mind-blowing, and it put your previous experiences to shame, but you _actually_ _fucked_ James Moriarty, a man so powerful and terrifying, a man who could have your neck broken with a snap of his fingers – or who could break it himself. So _why_ the hell, when you think about all of this, do you feel _excitement_ pulsing through your veins? What has this imprisonment done to you to make you thrilled at the thought of doing such obscene things with this obscenely dangerous man?

Clearly, this is not normal. None of what you’ve done already, or what you’re thinking of doing in the future, is safe or reasonable in the slightest, and it scares you to think that you have developed this sense of attachment, not to mention that you’ve begun to wonder if being held captive like this might not be such a bad thing after all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This was a tough one! But I finally finished this chapter! Sorry for the long wait, I've been very busy lately, and the story took a turn from what I originally had planned. But it's coming along now, slow and steady. Hope you guys like this one! I'm hoping the next chapter won't take so long...

You’ve accepted the fact that you’re now living, breathing evidence of Stockholm Syndrome, much to your displeasure when you think of it as a disorder. But at the same time, what else you call one’s increasing obsession with a murderous, maniacal captor like Moriarty? Maybe it wouldn’t be so much of an issue if he weren’t _so damn attractive_. You bury your head in your hands. How did you get here? Not here, physically, but to this mental state, where somehow your mind is willing to just cast all logic aside for the sake of pining over a complete psychopath – or, more specifically, remembering the way it felt to have his body pressed against yours, his length pulsing deep inside of you, the way his voice dropped low when he spoke, and the way his moans alone were enough to give you tremors.

You want to check in and see how Seb’s doing – he clearly wasn’t happy by the end of his conversation with Jim. You’re not sure what all that stuff about a woman was, but it piqued your interest. At the same time, however, you know it wouldn’t be the best decision to bother him about it right now. Anyway, you’re exhausted, and although it’s 7:20 in the morning, you change into a clean set of clothes, crawl under the covers, and sleep, having only gotten an hour or two of sleep when you were in the shower earlier.

___________________

You wake up around noon, still feeling groggy but not wanting to lay in bed any longer. You get up, and decide to walk over to Seb’s room to see if he’s in there. The door is open, and he’s lying on his bed, just staring up at the ceiling. He turns his head to look at you. “You can come in if you want,” he offers. “Just close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

You do as he says, and walk in to sit down in a chair at a writing table similar, if not identical, to yours, if not slightly more cluttered and scuffed from what might be knife marks.

“Is Jim back?” you ask, wondering if that’s why Seb wanted you to close the door.

"No.”

You wait a moment, not sure if he was planning to continue. He doesn’t. “Is everything okay? Between you and Jim?”

“Oh, that?” Seb chuckles dryly. “That was nothing, that’s just Jim being his usual self. You overheard our conversation then?”

You bite your lip. Maybe it was wrong for you to intentionally eavesdrop on them. But you nod.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seb tells you, apparently reading signs of guilt on your face.

You want to ask about the woman, but you know better. So instead, you decide to change the subject. “So where is he, anyway?”

Seb props himself up on his elbows. “Working.”

“Is that all you’re allowed to tell me?”

Seb laughs. “It’s all you need to know.”

“Is it?” you ask. “I’m just curious. You can’t keep me in the dark forever.”

“Hey, one step at a time, you just got brought up here.”

“Not even one little hint?”

“Fine. Jim is out, had to attend a meeting.”

“So why are you here then and not with him?”

“The meeting didn’t require me.”

“So are you only the sniper then, outside of these walls?” You know you’re being too nosy, pestering him like this. But you really would like to know more. “Or do you ever get in on some of the actual business of it all?”

“I’m more than a sniper,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Then what are you, exactly?”

“Someone’s got a lot of questions. Chief of staff.”

“So Jim has more people working for him then?”

“What, you think his whole business was just me and him?” Seb laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, Jim’s the mind behind it all, but his network is massive.”

“So all across England? Or more?”

“We’re talking the whole bloody globe.” You’re about to ask more, but he stops you. “Before you even think of asking another question, I’m not going to tell you anything else. You’ll find out more with time.”

You nod, content with his decision. He lays down again, and for a few minutes, the two of you just remain in silence, him staring at the ceiling, you gazing out the window at the cloud-filled sky, a typical rainy London morning.

“I just feel so… alone, you know?” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. “I know that it seems like an obvious part of being stuck in my situation but,” you pause, not sure how to continue. “It’s just hard.”

It makes you sad. The grey. The colorlessness. It reminds you of yourself in a way, your whole life, just an even line, no change, all the same. So dull, so… boring.

“I know,” Seb responds. Of course he would know. He was in your position just around four years ago. But then, everyone is different, and everyone experiences these things differently, so there’s no way of knowing whether or not anybody truly understands.

The slam of the front door brings your attention back to reality. Seb immediately sits up, then rises, exiting the room and going downstairs. “What’s the news?” he asks as his footsteps join Jim’s.

“Sorensen’s pawns weren’t in much of a mood for negotiation.”

“And?”

“They’re being dealt with as we speak.”

“Anything you need me to do?”

They start making their way upstairs. It doesn’t occur to you that you should go back to your room.

“I need you to –” Jim stops in the doorway to Seb’s room. You look back over your shoulder at him. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, and he’s loosening his tie. “…inform [y/n] of her boundaries,” he finishes curtly, directing his words to Seb, who’s standing behind you, while his gaze remains fixed on you. After a moment, he turns and leaves, going into his own room across the hallway and closing the door.

Seb sighs, looking over his shoulder, then walking into his room. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Didn’t stop you from letting me in earlier.”

“Well now I’m telling you that you can’t be here.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“You’re chief of staff, you obviously know something about the rules he makes,” you point out.

“We haven’t granted you full privileges yet, you still have limitations at your position, and if I were you, I wouldn’t keep questioning every order you’re given.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just go,” he sighs.

You bow your head and exit without another word. As you enter the hallway, Jim’s door opens, and you notice he’s changed clothes – he’s no longer in a full suit, but instead is wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. You’ve never seen him in casual clothes. Strange how different he looks when he’s not wearing a suit. Not quite as menacing. But the same vacancy, cold and emotionless, occupies his eyes.

He merely sends a glance your way, then moves past, entering Seb’s room and closing the door. He’s probably having a conversation with him about a job he needs Seb to do – whatever he was about to say before he saw you in Seb’s room.

Rather than trying to listen in on their conversation, you decide you’d rather spend some time elsewhere in the house, and you go downstairs, venturing into the kitchen to see what kind of food there is. It’s a nice kitchen, granite countertops, an array of different pots, pans, knives, and other cooking necessities. You open the fridge and find it stocked with the typical – fresh fruit, dairy items, and the like. Moving on, you skim over the contents of the pantry. More typical stuff, nothing unusual. You return to the fridge and grab an apple, rinsing it off in the sink, then sitting down at the small, two-person table.

All the surfaces are clean, no signs of a newspaper or anything that might indicate the state of the world outside. You could always turn on the news, but at the moment, you’d rather not concern yourself with current events. Just savor your escape from the rush of regular life for a while. Not that this is much better. A bit boring.

When you’re just about finished with your apple, you hear someone coming down the stairs – Seb, you guess, from the sound of the steps. He comes into the kitchen, in a different set of clothes – wearing dark colors, more discreet, sniper clothes, by the look of it. Not to mention the bag he has slung over his shoulder, likely containing any weapons he’s taking with him. He doesn’t acknowledge you, just walks past, opens the freezer, pulls out a vial – now _there’s_ something interesting – filled with a pale blue liquid – frozen, of course. He drops it in his bag, then leaves out the front door.

A minute passes, and when the silence has gotten too unbearable, you stand up and go over to the freezer, pulling it open. There’s some frozen vegetables, meat, nothing special… ah, yes, to the side, there’s a rack holding a few vials, their contents seemingly identical to the one Seb took. Poison, perhaps? But for what purpose? Well, obviously Seb’s doing a job for Jim, and it probably requires more than just taking a shot from a distance.

You take one of the vials and examine it, turning it in your hands. You have no idea what it could be, but you nearly drop it when you hear a voice speak from behind you.

“What do you think you’re doing? Careful – the last thing I need is you breaking one of those.”

You spin around to find Jim standing in the doorway to the kitchen. You hadn’t even heard him come downstairs. At this point, though, you really shouldn’t be surprised by his stealth and ability to avoid detection by others.

“I, uh – I saw Seb grab one of these, I was curious…” you trail off hesitantly.

“Just put it back,” Jim replies, not angry, just a little annoyed.

“Sorry.” You do as he says, then, closing the freezer, turn to face him again. “So what was it that you had to tell Seb that was so confidential that you couldn’t let me hear?”

Jim’s eyes narrow, and he takes a few steps towards you. “What makes you think that suddenly, now that you’re not stuck downstairs, you have unlimited rights here?” You back away from him, intimidated, until you’re back hits the edge of the counter. “You’re still powerless, and I intend to keep it that way, until you’ve proven that you can handle anything that I might give you, with responsibility.”

His face is just inches from yours, his voice low. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, and you feel yourself shrinking under his confident stance, his scrutinizing gaze. Definitely not a good time to start fantasizing about him grabbing you, maybe pinning you against the wall and making you come undone. And yet…

“Stop it,” he says suddenly.

“What?” you ask, startled.

“Looking at me like that,” he scoffs. “It’s not like I can’t tell what you’re thinking, especially when you’re making it so obvious.” He turns away and pulls out his phone, walking out of the room as he starts typing. “Do me a favor and try not to cause any trouble. I’ve some business to take care of, and I can’t be disturbed.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

He halts and turns back towards you. “Use your imagination,” he shrugs. “Just don’t be stupid.”

You sigh as you hear him return upstairs. “Okay, don’t do anything stupid,” you mutter to yourself. “A little more specificity would have been nice.” Looking around, you search the room for anything to occupy yourself with. You’ve never had much interest in cooking, so you probably won’t find anything in the kitchen. You decide to check out the living room instead, where there’s more comfortable seating, as well as a bookcase that you can look over.

You sit on the floor in front of the bookcase, skimming over the titles. There are a variety of classics, older works and contemporaries – Dante’s _Inferno_ , _Paradise Lost_ , _Crime and Punishment_ , _War and Peace_ (in Russian), _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , _A Clockwork Orange_ , _The Devil in the White City_ , _The Necrophiliac_ (in French), _1984_ , _A Brief History of Time_ , _The Martian_ , several works by Albert Camus (all in French), _The Invisible Man_ , _The Diamond Age_ , and an array of works in other languages – from German to Korean to Arabic...

You pull a book – _All The Light We Cannot See_ – from one of the shelves, lay down on the leather couch, and start reading. The further into it you get, the more of a break it provides from the thoughts that have been constantly plaguing you recently, and you find yourself getting lost in the pages.

Before you know it, it’s gotten dark outside. The house is quiet, you haven’t noticed any sound from upstairs; you wonder if Jim is still working. You set down the book on the arm of the sofa, get up and stretch, then softly walk upstairs. The door to Jim’s room is shut. You pad slowly towards it, then press your ear against the door. Nothing. Maybe he’s asleep, you wonder.

With a steady hand, you grasp the doorknob, turning it slowly, silently, then push the door inward. You take a step into the room, and see Jim sitting at a desk, his laptop open before him. His elbows rest on the desk, and he clutches his head in his hands, unmoving.

“I thought I told you not to disturb me.”

You nearly jump, you weren’t expecting him to speak.

“I – I’m sorry, sir, I just –” you stutter.

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” you try to explain.

He turns to face you, standing up and striding up to you, anger evident in his face. “Are you deaf? I told you to _leave_ ,” he has you backed up against the wall of his room. “Learn to obey a simple order, because I’m not going to spell everything out for you, if you’re going to be this thick-skulled in the future, then I’ll just get rid of you now.” His teeth are clenched, face inches from yours. His eyes, wide and brown, seem so cold and piercing, like shards of ice. Painful to look at, and you just want to flinch away.

There’s silence, filled only by your panicked, shallow breathing. You don’t know how to respond, you’re paralyzed where you stand, cowering beneath him.

“Get. Out,” he breathes. “ _Now!_ ”

You scurry away from him, stumbling from his room into your own as you hear him slam the door behind you. You shut your own door, pressing your back against it. Your breathing is heavy and unsteady, your chest heaving, and you slide down to the floor, knees bent, burying your face in your hands as you gasp for air, shaken by what just happened.

_How did I get here?_ you wonder to yourself as you feel your throat aching, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. You don’t let them. Now is not the time for you to be weak. You know that if you start crying, you won’t be able to stop. So for now, you just need to swallow the pain, make yourself numb to this, because you’re sure this won’t be the last you see of Jim’s rage.

_Just breathe_ , you tell yourself, hugging yourself in your arms, _keep breathing._ One thing at a time. Because if you don’t remember to remind yourself of basic things like breathing, you know you risk being swept away by the chaos of whatever life will send your way.

Breathe.

_Breathe._

_Don’t stop breathing._


	10. Chapter 10

When you wake up, you’re still on the floor, curled up, with your back against the door. You rub your eyes and stretch out, slowly standing up and checking the time. It’s half past three in the morning.

With a heavy sigh, you go over to your bed, dragging your bare feet across the floor, and you fall onto the covers on your stomach, face buried in the pillow. Might as well just go back to sleep, it’s not like you have anything else to do.

But just as you feel yourself drifting off, you hear a loud _thump_ , followed by a brief, startled shout.

You roll onto your back and push yourself up into a sitting position, staring at the wall across from the bed. Whatever that noise was, it came from Seb’s room. Holding your breath, you listen closer. There are sounds of scuffling, more thumps, but lighter, and no vocalizations.

Slightly concerned, you throw your legs over the side of the bed and slowly rise to your feet, then walk silently to your door. You open it as noiselessly as you can, step into the hallway on hesitant feet, then inch towards the closed door of Seb’s room. You still hear the faint noises, but they seem to be dying down. You consider just letting it go and returning to bed, but suddenly there’s a loud thump again, and without thinking, you immediately step forward and throw open the door.

You almost scream.

Seb is kneeling on the floor, hands locked around Jim’s throat, while Jim – for once, not wearing a suit, but instead in a white t-shirt and grey sweats – struggles to free himself, his own hands gripping Seb’s forearms. Jim’s eyes flick towards you, wide, desperate for air, yet somehow not afraid. Seb, seeing Jim look your way, glances over at you, and you freeze, but Jim takes advantage of Seb’s brief distraction and, releasing the sniper’s wrists, he punches him in the cheek, hard, knocking him off himself and onto the floor at his side.

Seb groans, one hand pressed against his cheek, the other holding himself upright. “Jesus… Christ.” He looks up, glances at Jim, who is now sitting up, cradling his torso with one arm and wiping blood from his lower lip with the other. “Jim? Oh, shit, I—”

You start to piece together what had happened. Seb wasn’t lucid, when he was trying to strangle Jim. It was a nightmare. Seb is a sniper, after all, and he fought in a war before Jim came across him. So then this must have been something caused by post-traumatic stress.

“Jim, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” Seb starts, pulling himself closer to Jim, but the other man just stands up, and shoves past you into the hallway without a word, a subtle limp making his usually steady and uniform steps uneven. Behind you, you hear the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut, followed by the faint _click_ of the lock.

You stare speechless at Seb, who’s still sitting on the floor, clutching his head in both hands. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , I’m so fucking screwed,” he mutters under his breath.

You bite your lip. “You… couldn’t exactly control it, though, right? So he can’t blame you for that.”

Seb glances up at you. “Damn it, I’m sorry you had to see that, this hasn’t happened in almost a year, I really thought I’d gotten past it. And this isn’t exactly the kind of thing that Jim can just shrug off – not when I try to kill him. Fuck, he is going to be pissed.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “So… you witnessed it. How bad was it?”

“Well, uh… I didn’t see all of it, but when I first showed up, you were just strangling him, against the floor. He already looked pretty beaten up – what was he doing in your room, anyway?”

“I can’t say for sure. I’d just gotten back from doing a job Jim needed me to do, and I just crashed, but that was almost an hour ago.” He stops, thinking. “Jim was still up when I got back, just asked me how the job went, and I said it went fine, no problems, everything went according to plan. And he just went back to his office.”

“Hold on, Jim has an office?” How is it that you’re just learning of this now? Not that it really matters.

“Well – it’s his room, really. But he uses it as an office, and that’s the way it looks, apart from the bed. There’s not really enough space in the flat for a separate room,” he shrugs. “But anyway, he might’ve just been getting something from my room, like some papers or something. There’s some stuff he keeps in here, things I might need to review when I’ve been assigned a job, like a target’s files or something. Whatever the reason was, though, doesn’t matter, because like I said, I’ve really fucked up.”

You rub your hand along the back of your neck. “Maybe I can try to talk to him for you?” you offer reluctantly, though you really feel uneasy about that.

Seb just laughs coldly. “Absolutely not, not when he’s like this. I’ve been with him for four years, you've barely been here for four weeks. No way you’re putting yourself in that kind of danger. I can handle Jim, trust me.”

You decide to let it go, and walk out of his room. In the hallway, you almost collide with a shirtless Jim, who’s just walked out of the bathroom. His hair is wet – you hadn’t even heard the shower running while you’d been talking to Seb – but you also notice the dark bruising around his neck, a couple of scratches on his face, and the striking black and blue of even more bruises decorating a significant portion of his ribcage. All of this, you take in within a matter of moments, because he’s already slouching into his room and pulling the door shut behind him, having only spared you a single glance that was darker that his bruises.

Feeling weary and exhausted, though just having woken up within the last hour, you return to your room and sit at the desk, burying your head in your arms. What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into – no, correction, Jim Moriarty has gotten you into this mess, none of this has been your doing, and you know that for a fact. The question, now is what are you going to do about it? You’re no longer chained up in the basement, you’re free to roam around the house. But what exactly does that allow? You’re not exactly free from all rules and restrictions, none of which have even been explicitly explained to you, other than the obvious – don’t leave the house, stay out of Jim’s room, and don’t do anything stupid, but according to Jim’s logic, that last one could apply to an endless variety of actions, so you don’t feel very safe doing much of anything, apart from staying in your room, sleeping, sitting, staring off into space, thinking.

You could write. It’s something you’ve always enjoyed doing, and the desk is supplied with pens, pencils, and blank notebooks. But what would you write about? You could keep a journal, but Jim could always just come in and read that, so what would be the point if you couldn’t keep it private? Might as well just keep it in your head. You can’t draw for your life, so that isn’t much of an option.

There are also plenty of books you could read, which would occupy you for ages, but is that all there is for you? Reading in a place that’s not your home, living in the uneasy presence of a criminal mastermind who’s more than a bit unpredictable, having beaten you half to death and also fucking you like no other man has, all within a few weeks – _God_ , your situation is fucked up. Everything about this, where you are now, is so unbelievably fucked up, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And your mind is just running in circles, reminding you of this constantly.

Meanwhile, your options for what you can do safely seem to be narrowed down to sleeping, eating, and reading. In any other context, you’d call that a nice, relaxing, easy life, but here, the mere idea of doing that for however long you’re stuck here is enough to drive you mad. You need to do _something_ to make yourself feel useful, like you’ll maybe get out of here someday, or like you’ll somehow gain something from this whole experience. Hah. Yeah right, tough luck on that one.

If nothing else, you could just give up completely. Live whatever kind of life this is on autopilot. Sleep at night, eat during the day, simply exist in all the spaces in between, and nothing more. You’re under too heavy of surveillance by your captor to make an attempt at ending your life, you’d already tried that, and afterwards, you ended up only being more miserable. You don’t want to die, really. At the time, it was a futile attempt to end the state of severe desolation you were in, but now you’re in a much better state.

A silly idea pops into your head. There _is_ another option. A stupid one, yes, but another option all the same. You know Jim is drawn to you. Your body, at least, if nothing else. You could take advantage of that, continue to fuck him whenever you please; after all, he doesn’t seem like he’d ever turn down that offer, and that could end up being much more fun for you than any other options. Maybe you could seduce him. That almost makes you laugh, the idea of even attempting to seduce a man who is clearly far too brilliant to fall for something as shallow and primitive as sexual trickery. Then there’s also the fact that he clearly is not always in the mood for a good fuck – take right now for example. He’s just nearly been killed by Sebastian, the single fleeting look he gave you in the hallway was enough to tell you that if you so much as get in his way for a second, he’ll make you regret it. Hell, he would make you regret existing at all, much less in his presence.

With a defeated sigh, you accept that, for the time being, you’ll just have to resign to living on autopilot. As long as you don’t do anything particularly absurd or irrational, that should suit you just fine for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so like 90% of this chapter was just a bit of a drag (and also much shorter than usual), sorry, I've been so insanely busy and also I'm just kind of stuck, in terms of this particular spot in the story. I've got plenty of stuff that happens later on, but this is just one of the gaps that I'm currently attempting to fill, so just bear with me. I am almost certain that the next chapter will not take as long as this one. Thank you all for still reading this, all the kudos an comments are immensely appreciated, I love you all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before I say anything else, I just want to give a HUGE apology for making you all wait so long for this chapter. I have just been so busy with school, and I spent too long neglecting this fic, but chapter 11 is finally here! It was mostly ready these past few months, but there were some last edits I had to make that I didn't have time to do until now. As for the next chapter, I'm hoping it will not take nearly as long. Hope you enjoy, and please comment, I love hearing back from you about what you think!

The days pass slowly, unchanging, and you’re surprised at how easy it’s turning out to be to do essentially nothing. You’ve been continuing to read _All The Light We Cannot See_ , and you’ve almost finished it, so you’ll have to find something else to start on once that’s done.

You’ve also spent a fair amount of time sitting in the lounge downstairs and taking note of whatever goes on around you, whether that means simply observing your surroundings, or watching Jim or Seb whenever they’re around. Neither one of them really engages with you, apart from the occasional attempts at small talk from Seb, or clipped questions from Jim if he notices you watching him – “What.” He always says it more like a statement. “Nothing,” you shrug, making no effort to look away. He’s sometimes annoyed, and you just smile softly. No point in letting yourself get dragged down by someone else’s mood. “Shouldn’t you be doing something useful?” “Maybe if I knew what I’m doing here in the first place.” That usually shuts him up, and earns you a well-deserved glare as he moves on to whatever he was in the middle of doing.

He hasn’t been wearing suits lately, but instead wears t-shirts and jeans or sweatpants. He looks strikingly different in more casual clothing – but no less attractive. You like to watch as he walks away from you – while his figure always looks great in a well-fitting suit, something about seeing him in more relaxed clothing is a nice change, not to mention the fact that you can now get a glimpse of those damn arms – you remember the way the muscles moved beneath the skin as you gripped his arms when… well, when you’d had a chance to see him, and feel him, fully naked. You have, admittedly, spent much time thinking about Jim, in ways that you probably shouldn’t be, but nobody’s stopping you. You might as well get all the enjoyment you can get out of being here.

It’s now been about a week and a half since you’ve been brought upstairs, so a week and a half since Jim has made any sort of physical interaction with you. Lately, he’s seemed too preoccupied with his work to even think of taking a break for pleasure, not to mention the fact that he still must be recovering from the situation with Seb. You have noticed, however, that he hasn’t left the flat since then, likely because of his injuries. He still walks with a bit of a limp, and you occasionally see him wincing in pain, a hand gripping his ribcage. Sometimes when you’re thinking about him, you can’t help but recall the image of the bruising that splayed over his torso, the thought alone bringing discomfort and anxiety to your mind. You’re not afraid of Sebastian, but something about seeing Jim injured caused worry to settle in your thoughts. It’s funny how, only about a month ago, you caused far more damage to him, and while you felt sickened with yourself, you hadn’t actually been worried about him.

But things have changed since then. You’ve gotten to know Jim better and – though it is definitely unwise and probably dangerous as well – you’ve grown attached to him, drawn to him in more ways than one. Physically, of course – that one is nearly automatic – but also emotionally, mentally; you find his mere presence intellectually stimulating, you know he’s a clever bastard, to say the least, and something about the sense of mystery that surrounds him – you still know so little of who he is and what he does – only adds to the effect he has on you.

________________________

One day, when you’re getting ready to take a shower, the bathroom door is closed, which it sometimes is, even if nobody is in there. You usually knock but now you just assume it’s empty. The door is unlocked, anyway, so you just open it.

You find Jim sitting on the counter, a white towel wrapped around his lower half, head tilted up [looking in the mirror], with a needle and thread in one hand. He’s halfway through stitching up a gash at the base of his neck, where it meets the shoulder. You hadn’t noticed that before; you thought he’d just been bruised from the incident, but evidently not. He sees your reflection in the mirror and looks startled, but before he can say anything, you just close the door again and stand in the hall for a moment, biting your lip.

His body was still bruised faintly here and there, but he seemed to be doing better than he was before, and likely hadn’t been spending all day bedridden. He did seem rather thin, however. You’re not sure why it made any difference to you, anyway.

You go downstairs, and into the kitchen, where you see a newspaper on the table, one Seb must’ve brought in. September 27. It’s been two weeks since you’d first been brought up from the basement. Something’s on the front page about a “Reichenbach Hero” of sorts, some detective whose name you’d heard tossed around casually in the past, a certain Sherlock Holmes. You pick up the paper and skim through it, mostly just looking at the headlines. Disagreements in Parliament. A deadly bar fight ending with two casualties and one in intensive care. Nothing interesting, nothing special. All boring.

Nothing changes over the next several days; Jim stays home, still recovering, usually on business calls or doing work on his laptop, too busy to do more than acknowledge you with a nod or, sometimes, just a brief glance. Seb spends a lot of time out doing work for Jim, you’re not sure what kind of work, you only hear occasional snippets of their conversations.

You spend some time watching the news, or whatever else is on the telly, just passing time, staying out of trouble.

One day, when you go downstairs, you notice that for the first time since he’d been injured, Jim isn’t home. Seb is also away, doing a job for Jim, something about dealing with some Romanian assassins, or something. When you’d heard them talking about it, you decided to stay out of it completely, tuning them out soon after they’d started their conversation.

Downstairs, you decide to turn on the television and try to relax, feeling a bit less reclusive now that Jim isn’t there. You switch over to the news and just watch it blankly for an hour or two on end. You don’t really pay attention, you don’t listen, or really focus your eyes on the actual figures on the screen. Until the news reporter receives a notice through her earpiece. Says something about some big heist, someone tried to steal the Crown jewels, break into the Bank of England, and crash the security system at the Pentonville Prison, all at once. You scoff. What kind of a dumbass would think they’d be able to get away with all of that?

_“And here’s footage from the scene now, with the man in question, James Moriarty, being escorted from the site.”_

You freeze. The screen displays a clip of Moriarty, a mildly annoyed, yet at the same time amused, look on his face, getting pushed into the back of a police car by an officer.

“Oh, that fucking idiot,” you say aloud, mouth agape.

 ______________________

The next day, you go downstairs early to get the newspaper, and sure enough, front page, “The Crime of the Century?” printed in bold text with two faces showing up in the pictures below. One, a portrait of the Reichenbach Hero himself, Sherlock Holmes. And the other, none other than the snobbish-looking James Moriarty, being escorted into the back of a police car. The same man who apparently walked up to the crown jewels display, triggered the alarms to get everyone to leave, broke the glass, and adorned the crown, along with several other jewels and attire in the case. He was found sitting in the throne-like chair, just waiting for the cops to show up, apparently not even resisting as they handcuffed him and led him out of the building.

All the while, he had allegedly, somehow, hacked into the security systems of both the bank and the prison, opening the vaults of one while shutting off the surveillance in the other.

But he didn’t even try to steal anything.

You squeeze your eyes shut and drop your head into your hands. No, of course Jim didn’t steal anything, didn’t cause any major permanent damage. What had likely happened was, early yesterday morning, he’d woken up, finally in good enough health to move around without more than some aching in the ribs and the collarbone. He got out of bed and realized that he was bored.

And now he’s in jail, awaiting his trial.

_“_ Jim, you god damn _fucker!”_ Seb’s voice rings down from upstairs.

You rest your elbows on the table and bury your face in your hands. Seb’s angry footsteps thump down the stairs, and he storms into the kitchen, grabbing the newspaper from where it rests in front of you on the table.

“What the bloody hell was he thinking, that stupid…”

Seb hadn’t gotten home until late the night before, and immediately crashed, without checking the news or even glancing at his phone. But while upstairs just now, he must’ve checked it. His phone now sits on the table in front of you, unlocked, open to a conversation with Jim. Three new texts from him since yesterday.

“ _The cops are on their way. Can’t wait. JM x”._ Attached is a picture, a selfie of him wearing the crown jewels and royal attire.

The next text: _“Did you arrange everything with the assassins? JM”._ Sent last night, when Seb was already in bed.

And the last one, which was sent a few minutes ago. _“Might be home late. Trial’s set for six or seven weeks from now. Might take the jury a while to make any sort of rational decision, but you know what to do in the meantime. Should be back within two months. In jail until then. Visit me? ;) JM”._

You glance at Seb, who’s skimming over the article with a scowl spread across his face. “Why did he do this?” you ask softly.

Seb doesn’t even look up from the newspaper. “How the hell should I know?” he snaps angrily. “God, that cocky _bastard_ ,” he mutters, glancing from the picture on his phone to the front page of the paper.

“You mean he didn’t tell you about any of this beforehand?” you ask. “I thought-”

“No, he didn’t,” Seb hisses, whipping his head to the side to look at you.

You don’t respond, not wanting to upset him further.

But he closes his eyes and sighs, hanging his head down over the table. He drops the paper back onto the table and plants his hands on the table on either side of the newspaper, shoulders hunched over it. “Look, he doesn’t always tell me what he’s planning on doing. He’s a fucking arse sometimes and thinks he can just go around and do whatever he wants, because he knows he’s safe, he knows he’ll never get in any trouble in the end.” He stands upright, running a hand through his hair. “But one of these days, I swear, he’ll end up getting himself killed.”

“Why did he do it, though?” you ask. “He didn’t even take anything, just… I don’t know, it’s like he was just messing around.”

“That’s exactly what he was doing. Because he’s got nothing else to do. Or who knows, it could all be a part of some grand fucking scheme of his, God knows what that could be.” He sighs irritably, hanging his head with his eyes closed. “The thing about Jim is… he may be a total piece of shit sometimes. But his intellect… God, when he first started training me, I thought he was out of his mind. But over time, I realized how fucking brilliant he is. I’d never even met anyone with a mind like his. But then this Sherlock Holmes bloke came along,” he gestures at the man’s photo on the front page, “and then there were two great minds of London – of the whole fucking world, it seemed. But, God, you couldn’t have two people who were more different… Yet oddly alike. Two sides of the same coin.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’ve both got brilliant minds, for one - and they know it, too. And it seems they’re both on the verge of absolute madness, because they’re so… Bored. Bored with life, bored with being stuck around people with such a lower intellectual capability. So all they really do with their lives is search for distractions, anything to keep their minds off of the torturous boredom. While Jim, as you’ve noticed, uses his skills to manipulate others, watch with amusement as they stumble helplessly around in their ignorance, Holmes just convinces himself he can coexist normally with us ‘ordinary’ people. The way Jim puts it, Holmes lies to himself while Jim is the only one accepting things as they are. He’s fully aware of the world’s ignorance, while the detective tries to convince himself otherwise. And with Jim, he doesn’t even look for clients. They all come to him, whether small-scale criminal empires, corrupt governments on the verge of anarchy, you name it. Oftentimes, he doesn’t even request payment. He just likes to cause trouble and chaos, standing on the edge of a wall enclosing the rest of the world. He likes watching them running in circles, oblivious to the world around them, like blind insects.

“And then you have Sherlock Holmes. Just as much of a genius as Jim is. But he, on the other hand, as Jim has explained to me (I’ve never met him myself), he uses his detective work, solving crimes and puzzles, to keep the boredom at bay. He helps people, rather than hurting them. He tolerates ‘regular’ people enough to be able to spend a significant amount of his time with them. But Jim rarely ever steps into their – or _our_ , I suppose – world. And when he finds people like you or me, it’s because he sees some sort of brilliance in us, I suppose. Not nearly as great as his own, of course, but enough for him to think he can put us to some use. Me, I was a good shot, when he found me; recently discharged from the military. And I had nothing else going for me.”

You scoff. “Doesn’t really seem like he’s put my knowledge to any use yet.”

Seb chuckles softly. “Oh, you’ll see. He did the same with me, starting off lightly, letting me ease into this new life. But then as soon as he actually began training me, and making use of my mind it was… Hell. For both of us. He taught me all about his system of networks scattered throughout the world, how everything works, he taught me the basics of secrecy and hacking into crucial government databases – which is, I’d like to note, not basic at all. Hell for me because it took me weeks to understand what he was even trying to tell me, and several months to actually be able to make sense of it enough to understand how to do all of the processes and jobs. Hell for him because to him it was like he was talking to a wall. Didn’t know how else to communicate the information, just because it was all so complex and intricate, there was no simple way to explain it. And then he altered some of my military skills, helped me improve my skilled with the rifle, with tracking and shooting targets with next to no chance of failure. He took a good sniper and made me into a great one. God knows how he learned the skills. I’d learned the fundamentals when I served in the army. But he refined all of that.

“The main thing is, he relies on people like us, even when he does shitty things on his own like this – but then, he obviously had others helping execute the break-ins and security breaches. Granted, he’s the one who plans it all and figures all of it out.”

“And now he’s in jail,” you comment sarcastically. “Sounds like things are going pretty well for the mastermind, hm?”

Seb shakes his head, smiling slightly. “You realize he’s only in jail because he chose to be. Everything he does – it all ends up being a part of a bigger plan.”

“And has he told you what this plan is?”

He pauses, looking downward. “Like I said before, he hasn’t told me about any of this yet,” he shrugs. “He’s done this in the past, doing something on a whim. Kind of like… when he first brought you here. Though I have no idea when he’d been planning on telling me about that, and he’s still hardly explained anything to me about why you’re here. But with other stuff like this,” he gestures to the paper, “he usually ends up telling me eventually, because he needs me to take care of something.”

“Like bailing him from jail?” you ask skeptically.

Seb laughs. “No, nothing that simple, he always has a way of making things so complex and…”

“…brilliant?” you suggest, finishing his sentence.

“Exactly.”

He turns away to pour himself some coffee, which you’d prepared before he came down, then walks back to the table with a mug, and sits down in one of the two chairs.

You slide into the chair opposite him. He’s got his mug in one hand, and the paper in the other as he begins skimming through/over the article about Jim again.

“Um…” you start hesitantly. Across from you, he brings his mug to his lips and raises his eyes to look at you, silently inquiring you to speak. “How did all of this start? How did Jim… end up like this?”

He sets down his mug and the paper, and leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. He looks away, thinking. “Honestly,” he starts, “he’s told me next to nothing about himself, and the little I do know about him, he’d probably skin me if I said anything.”

“Is there anything you _can_ tell me, though?”

Seb thinks for a moment, weighing his options. He leans forward again, resting his arms on the table. “I’ll tell you some stuff, so long as you swear not to mention this to him.” You nod, curious about what you’re about to find out about this ambiguous man who you’ve known for only two months.

“I’ll start with what I know about his relationships with people. All these years, I’ve been his only man. He’s been with plenty of women, all one night stands – apart from a few relationships which were work-related, part of a job – because that was all they wanted, and it was all he wanted. He loves teasing girls, seducing them, drawing them in and showing them who’s in charge. Not like with you. I can tell that he’s more… attached to you. He’s drawn to you in more ways than one. Physically, sure. But also mentally. He can see that you think like him in a way. And he likes that. He hasn’t told me, but I can tell in how he acts around you, and how he talks about you. He holds some sort of respect for you, an approval of sorts. He’d given me the same treatment after a while. But with this… There’s something different about it. Perhaps he’s particularly drawn to a smart woman. There was this one…” He trails off. “She obviously wanted him, and God, was she a seductress. A dominatrix, in fact, and clever, too. And she liked the way he would cause trouble just for the fun of it. She’d tried seducing him, wanted to dominate him, but he always resisted, likely because he found her too boring, too predictable. I’m not sure they’d even… slept together. But I doubt it. And she gave up after a while. Was too preoccupied with Sherlock – she was actually getting help from Jim to manipulate Sherlock and the whole bloody government.

“But I can’t say for sure if he’s been with any other women since you’ve gotten here. He’s always seemed a bit more… fluid, flexible with women. He’s never been in anything serious with any of them. But like I said, you’re different. And then again, before he was with me, he might’ve been the same way with men. I can’t really know for sure.

“But what I was saying earlier about him and Sherlock, they’re practically… Obsessed with each other, in a warped sort of way. They hate each other, yes, but when Sherlock first came around, when he really started getting in the way of Jim’s work… Well, it was almost like a blessing to Jim. He was the perfect distraction. It started out as a game to him, then became a sort of competition, to see who could outsmart the other. And now, for the past year and a half, he’s been torturing himself over it, obsessing so much over every little detail. Especially since they met face to face last year. Jim always acts so strange about Sherlock, strangely fixated on him. Sometimes, I worry about him, but it’s like it excites – no, that’s not the right word. It amuses him. Keeps him preoccupied. Because finally he’s found someone who might possibly have the mind to challenge his own intellect. And I believe this whole ordeal with the Tower of London, and the bank and the prison, has something to do with Sherlock. But I don’t know exactly what it is yet. And I’m hoping I’ll find out soon.

“It says in the paper here that his trail is set for six weeks from tomorrow. I won’t be able to go, I can’t risk showing myself there, but I want you to go, and tell me what happens, what you see.

“And until then, I’m going to teach you how to use a gun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and reviews are greatly appreciated :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologize enough for how long this update has taken. I've just been so busy from school to work to other stuff, but I'm hoping I'll get the next update posted within the next 2 months, before I go back to school. As always, I hope you all are enjoying the fic, and I really appreciate all the feedback!

He starts the next day. 4:30 AM, to be exact. He comes into your room and shakes you awake with firm hands on your upper arms. You groan and roll onto your side, away from him. “It’s too _early_ ,” you mumble, your words half muffled by the pillow.

“Well get used to it,” he retorts, “because we’ve got six weeks of this ahead of us.” He grabs the covers on the bed and, after prying your hands off of them, pulls them back from you and drags – literally _drags_ you out of your bed, wrapping his arm around your waist and holding your body to his side as you face the opposite direction, your bare feet trailing behind.

Once you reach the top of the stairs, he stands you upright. “I’m not dragging you down the stairs. Or carrying you, for that matter,” he says irritably. “Wake up already. We’re leaving in 15 minutes.”

You hold onto the bannister for balance, rubbing your eyes with your other hand. “Where are we even going?” you yawn as Seb starts making his way downstairs.

“Out,” he responds over his shoulder. “You’ll see. Somewhere where I can teach you to shoot a gun, where nobody will see us. It’s a bit of a long drive, so we need to leave as soon as possible. Get something to eat, get dressed, then we’re out.”

You sigh, following him down the stairs. You’re barely hungry this early in the day, so you just have a piece of toast with butter, and a glass of orange juice. Back in your room, you fight off the temptation to lay back down in your bed and fall asleep again, and walk over to your closet grudgingly, pulling out some trousers and a t-shirt.

You go into the bathroom, splashing your face with cold water, trying to wake yourself up. It helps a bit, but you’re still groggy.

You go back downstairs while pulling on a jumper, and when you reach the bottom, Seb is sitting in a chair, skimming over the paper again, ready to go. He’s wearing a white tank top and dark green cargo trousers – he looks quite military-esque, you notice. His skin is a light shade of tan, marked by more than a few noticeable scars streaking across his arms and shoulders, one over his collarbone. The tank top just accentuates his already obviously muscular build – broad shoulders, defined pecs and abs, toned deltoids, biceps, triceps. His eyes flick up to you for a moment, then back down as he sets the paper on the table.

“Good to go then?” he asks.

“Just about,” you answer, slipping your feet into a pair of trainers.

“Here,” he tosses you a water bottle. “You’ve gotta stay hydrated.”

With that, the two of you leave through the front door, Sebastian leading you towards the sleek black car waiting by the curb.

“Where’s all the… artillery?” you ask, noticing that Seb isn’t carrying anything but a water bottle for himself.

“Already packed in the trunk,” he responds shortly, unlocking the car and stepping in behind the wheel, while you set yourself beside him in the passenger’s seat.

Twisting the keys in the ignition, he turns his head to look you over. A small smile hints at his features. “You ready?”

You exhale, slightly nervous with anticipation, trying to loosen yourself up. “Let’s do this.”

He shifts the car into gear and pulls onto the road.

 _________________________

Seb was right. The drive is long. You left early enough to beat London traffic, but once out of the city, there was a lot of distance to cover through more rural areas.

Seb pulls over on a dirt road in the middle of a heavily wooded area, the car’s clock reading 6:27 AM. He steps out of the car and walks around to the trunk, and you follow suit.

“Shouldn’t we be practicing this in a more… open area?” you ask while glancing around, not sure about shooting through such dense woods.

Pulling a black duffel out of the trunk, he turns his head to you again, with that same half-smile as before. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

He leads you along a narrow dirt path which goes along for about a quarter mile. He stops when he reaches an opening in the trees, a decently sized field bordered by the dark greens and earthy browns of the forest.

“Well here’s an open area for you,” Seb grins, sliding the duffel from his shoulder and crouching down to open it. Your head spans from side to side as you take in the terrain. It’s not excessively expansive, but definitely large enough for your purposes. Seb stands up beside you. “Here, take this. It’s a Berretta M9A3, short recoil, semi-automatic, traditional double-action pistol. Used primarily by the U.S. military.”

You turn to look, and reach out to take the handgun, not quite registering anything he just said.

“We start small, then work our way up, got it?”

“Got it.” You examine the gun, getting the feel of it as you turn it in your hands. It’s not quite as heavy as you had expected it to be, and soon you adjust to the touch of your dominant hand wrapped around the cool metal handle.

“It’s not loaded yet, so it’ll feel a bit different later on,” Seb informs you. “For now, I’m just teaching you the basics.” He holds an identical gun in his own hands. “Do you know anything about using guns?”

You shrug. “Hardly. Just what you see in the movies; there’s the safety, the magazine, you can’t let the gun get wet, that kind of thing.”

He chuckles. “It’s the gunpowder that can’t get wet – and most guns are sealed off well enough to prevent that from happening. But anyway, before we even get into any of that stuff with the different functions of the gun, I need to teach you how to properly hold it, how to stand when shooting, what not to do, that kind of stuff.”

Over the next forty-five minutes, he gives you a basic overview on proper grip, stance and posture, position of your arms – emphasizing that, while you’re learning, you must always use _both_ hands to hold the firearm – before he even touches on the subject of using the actual gun.

Once you know the basics, he explains how the gun works, what he meant by “short recoil” and “semi-automatic,” showing you how the safety features work, and giving you some chances to pull the trigger. It’s a lot to take in, but you feel you’re starting to understand it better. Before long, he takes the gun from your hands, pulls a small box with bullets out of his pocket, and starts loading the gun.

 “Wait, so now I’m actually going to shoot stuff?”

“Yep. There’s only so much you can learn about guns before you actually gotta practice firing one.”

“What should I aim for?”

“Let’s start simple,” he walks you over towards the trees, until you’re about 10 feet from one of them. He cocks your loaded gun, aims at the tree, and shoots it, right in the middle, before handing the gun to you. “Just hit the tree, okay?”

“That’s it?” you ask, cocking the gun again, and pointing it at the tree, keeping both hands steady. “Just hit the tree?”

“Might not be so easy for your first try.”

You narrow your eyes, focusing on the exact point where Seb hit the tree. Your grip tightens, and your index finger tightens as you pull the trigger.

“ _Shit_ ,” you hiss as you feel the recoil from the pistol vibrating halfway up your arms, a rather jarring and uncomfortable sensation. Your eyes close for a moment, and when you open them again, you’re not sure where the bullet ended up. You turn to Seb, slightly embarrassed. “Did… did I hit the tree?” you ask meekly.

He glances at you. “You skimmed the side of it. Hey, if it was going to be easy right off the bat, then I wouldn’t need to train you. That’s why we’re going to keep working on it, so you get better, got it?”

You nod.

“Again. Aim for the tree. And now that you know what to expect, make whatever changes will help you. Keep your arms firmer, keep your eyes open.”

“Okay.” You turn back to the tree, determined to properly hit it this time, aim the pistol, and pull the trigger.

 _________________________

Over the course of those next six weeks, you become relatively proficient at using a variety of guns and melee weapons, as well as performing some basic hand-to-hand combat maneuvers. In the process, you also learn a great deal more about Seb and his past – his experiences in the military as an army colonel, then the reasoning behind his discharge – overly aggressive behavior and inadequate self-restraint, both in military tactics and among his fellow soldiers. Though he makes a point of telling you how Jim took these faults and put them to greater use, and helped him use them to perfect his preexisting skills.

Spending all of this time with Seb also meant getting the occasional story of some of his previous work with Jim, and from these stories you were able to piece more together about the kind of man Jim is. But even with all of the things you’re learning about the elusive man, you can’t help but feel that Seb is holding something back. A great deal of things, actually. It’s likely that Jim has strictly instructed him not to tell you certain things under any circumstances whatsoever, but you can’t help but be curious about them.

“So how exactly did Jim start all this stuff? The criminal empire and everything?” you ask one day, while putting away an assault rifle after a long morning of training.

Seb looks at you skeptically. “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” he says.

“Not even a little bit?”

“Look, when, and if, Jim wants you to learn about his past and everything, he’ll tell you himself. Or he’ll give me instruction to tell you. But until then…”

“Do you know everything about his past?”

“Absolutely not,” Seb laughs. “You think Jim would disclose his entire life history to anyone, even me?”

“I mean, I don’t exactly know him that well,” you shrug.

“Trust me, he keeps his personal life and past experiences in the dark, for the most part. I’m lucky he’s told me anything, and half of what I know came from me piecing things together about him based on other things I observed or heard from others. And that stuff, I’m not even sure about. Part of what makes him such an intimidating figure to everyone is the fact that there’s so much ambiguity surrounding him. Nobody can really figure him out. I’d be damned if I tried to screw with that.”

You nod, now understanding that Jim’s obscure behavior wasn’t unique to his interactions with you.

In the car on the way back, Seb brings up something you’d been meaning to ask about. “So the trial is tomorrow,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” you respond. “Are we going?”

“I’m not – I can’t, not if I want to keep a low profile. If I go, I risk being recognized, which could seriously fuck things up for both Jim and me in the future.”

“So does that mean I have to go alone? Or should I do what you’re doing?”

“Nobody would recognize you, and no one would think to associate you with Jim. There’s no harm in you going, and you’d be able to keep me updated on how the trial is going.”

“Hold on, haven’t _you_ been doing all the preparation for this, getting a lawyer and everything? I’ve been left completely in the dark, I have basically no idea about anything that’s going to be going on in there!” you raise your voice, not understanding why Seb is putting you in this position with absolutely no preparation.

“That’s why you’ll be reporting back to me. It’s the only option we have.”

“And what if someone does figure it out, then what are we going to do?”

“Just leave that to me, all you should be worrying about is making sure you bring me updates from the trial. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

You don’t respond for a moment, thinking it over, but you reluctantly agree to do it. “Fine. But if something goes wrong-”

“Then I’ll take care of it,” he finishes.

“Okay,” you nod.

The rest of the ride back is silent, and you spend it pondering how tomorrow is going to go. The more you think about it, the more curious you become, and you sense yourself starting to feel almost… _excited_ to see Jim again, after six long weeks of his absence. You close your eyes, hoping that everything will go alright in the trial. Because if it doesn’t – well, you don’t know nearly enough about what’s going on to be able to predict the consequences, but you know it wouldn’t be good. And you don’t know exactly how prepared Jim and Seb are for this. But that’s out of your control, and at this point, all you can do is hope for the best, whatever that might entail.


End file.
